Star Trek: The Four Years War Book 2
by Stephen Fender
Summary: This is the second novel in the FYW series. This novel will focus on the second year of the conflict between the Federation and the Klingons
1. Introduction

STAR TREK

THE FOUR YEARS WAR

BOOK 2

A NOVEL BY

STEPHEN FENDER

JRP

Jolly Rogers Productions

Star Trek: The Four Years War, Book 2

Copyright © 2012 Stephen Fender

.com

Science Fiction, Action, Adventure

Published through , in conjunction with Jolly Rogers Productions (JRP) ©, a subordinate division of

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 978-1-300-07848-7

STAR TREK, STAR TREK THE ORIGINAL SERIES, and related marks are trademarks of CBS Studios, Inc.

FASA © Corporation is the holder of the intellectual copyrights on the material for which this novel was largely based.

Cover art modeling, rendering, and overall layout by Stephen Fender.

All characters depicted on this novel not appearing in any other Star Trek licensed related work are the sole intellectual property of Stephen Fender. Characters in this novel are not intended, nor should they be inferred by anyone, to represent actual living beings—either now or in the 23rd century. If you'd like to infer, then go right ahead. I won't stop you.

Download these other exiting novels for free from the author's website:

.com

Star Trek: The Four Years War, Book 1

Star Trek: The Next Generation, Pirates Cove

"…every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed. This world in arms is not spending money alone. It is spending the sweat of its laborers, the genius of its scientists, the hopes of its children. This is not a way of life at all in any true sense. Under the clouds of war, it is humanity hanging on a cross of iron."

- DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER

"History teaches that wars begin when governments believe the price of aggression is cheap."

- RONALD REAGAN

Acknowledgements

As in my previous novel, I would like to thank the following members at Morena Shipyards for all of their time, effort, and talent in contributing to this book: Chris Bell, Tony Stroppa, Eric Basir, Keith Holmes, Brianne Lyons, Dan Rygasewicz, Harry Schurr, The Crimson Pirate, Kenneth Farel, Mark Hutton, Lee Wood, Michael Corbo, Katrina Allard, Dale McKee, Ithiaca Dreamweaver and especially Kevin Oyer for his exceedingly impressive universe map, as well as anyone else I've failed to mention. I'd also like to mention Brad Torgersen at the Starship Tactical Combat Simulator Database ( ~ ). These intrepid few have been a driving force in keeping the FASA Star Trek line going all of these years.

I would also like to thank G.S. Davis at Tamerlane ( ) for the use of the ship and the crew of the fanfic original series U.S.S. Tamerlane. A large thanks should also go out to The Red Admiral ( .com), as well as M. Christopher Freeman and Mark Wilson. The diagrams of the Santee-class carrier and the D-16 Fighter craft come directly from The Red Admiral's site, and were pivotal in creating several scenes in this novel.

Thanks should also go out to the readers and reviewers of my rough draft at , and for as a whole for hosting my work and giving me a medium to publish this novel on. I would also like to thank the small army of moderators at Star Trek: The Expanded Universe ( .com). They were all enormously helpful as I added my own contributions to the site with material from this novel. I'd also like to thank Jim Burrows ( ~brons/) for the hard work he's poured into his StarGen program over the last 30+ years. Also, Steven Savage at Seventh Sanctum™ ( .com) for some of the random RPG generators that are freely available to gamers and writers like myself.

I'd like to send a hearty thanks to my parents. They have been a great inspiration and source of support in my work. Also, to my very close friends Jeff and Jeremy, thank you both for your decades of friendship. Who knew when we started this journey so long ago it would bear so much delicious fruit? I'm proud of you both.

Lastly, I want to thank my wife for her encouragement. While she is not a great fan of Star Trek, she had graciously 'put up' with the constant barrage of TOS and TNG episodes that I've been watching at home as I do 'research'. Her pride in my accomplishments causes my heart to soar, and I will forever be indebted to her for everything she is, everything she does, and for everything she's given me.

Thank you all,

Stephen

Forward

Welcome to the second installment in my Four Years War series. The road to this point has been filled with both ups and downs, as I'm sure any writer will tell you. While I won't go into the details of the high points, I will tell you that the greatest low point was the death of my hard drive. I lost the first six edited chapters of this book and, based on my notes, had to re-create them. My best advice to everyone is to back-up their data… then back-up again to someplace else… and do both religiously. This novel would have been finished a month earlier, had I followed that seemingly trivial piece of advice.

In this novel you will find lots of new characters, as well some of the familiar faces from the first novel in this series. While the size and scope of Starfleet Command would, obviously, be enormous, I still felt that I would need to tie the novels in this series together in some way, and the best way to do that would be to link characters and events, instead of just the latter. No one ship or crew dominates this novel (unlike Kirk's Enterprise), or this series, and I hope that you visualize this as you read.

In dealing with a large entity, such as Starfleet, it was necessary that I decide what is, and what a fleet is not. Starfleet, as we all understand it, is a mighty entity, filled with thousands or starships, doing dozens of different missions, patrolling tens of thousands of square light years (parsecs) of space. It's a 'logical assumption'.

At this point in my series, I've created nearly 150 different, unique characters to fill this universe. Each of them has their own story to tell, and I've attempted to make each of them as real as I could in as little space as possible. Each page of this book costs money (and/or time) and, while I'm intimately familiar with that fact, I've tried not to let it detract from the overall flow of the story. Some of these beings are only described in passing, while for others I've created entire Starfleet records with details all the way back to what they scored on their SAT's. I feel that it is both necessary and, quite honestly, exceedingly fun to do so. Some of these characters are based on people I know, or that I've seen on TV (in other, non-Trek shows), and some are people that I've simple passed on the sidewalks while strolling the streets of downtown. Earnest Hemingway is quoted as saying "Every man's life ends the same way. It is only the detail of how he lived and how he died that distinguishes one man from another." I've tried hard to live in the details of my cast, because how they live and how they die is so very important to who they are and what their purpose is.

And, then there is 'love'. While I'm not particular when it comes to how I write the love arcs into my story, I felt that the attraction between people (or beings) and how they are described—particularly with regards to Star Trek—definitely sets the tone. Love and, more specifically sex, was handled far differently in TOS (the 1960's) than it was in TNG (the 1990's). Some would say that TOS was more chauvinistic, more testosterone powered, than TNG, where women were more empowered in the 1990's (and, as a result, in the 24th century as well!). With this, I agree. Captain Kirk's womanizing would never have translated to Captain Jen-Luc Picard's starship. Even the general interactions between officers of different ranks were handled far more casually in TOS. Since Kirk's era is a byproduct of the events in this novel, the reader of this work will probably get more of a sense of relationships as they applied in TOS rather than how they did in TNG. This is, I feel, how it should be. It's all about continuity, and the little things in Star Trek really do make a big difference.

Death is permanent. Seems pretty obvious, right? Well, not when it comes to some science fiction. Even in Trek we have examples of beings coming back from the dead (Spock, ST:III). In this series, death is final. There are no miraculous come-backs, and I've endeavored to show that—in life or death situations (most often faced by Kirk in TOS)—they sometimes end in death. It's a fact. That's why it's called 'life or death'. Sometimes, the bony hand extends to you and shows you into the boat that will ferry you across the river Styx. It happens. I admit, with no trepidations, that I love each of my characters. Each of them, from the lowliest Ensign to the Fleet Admiral himself, has a place in my heart. That is as it should be. As writers, we cannot help but put something from inside of us into everything and everyone we create. It's a truth that's as inescapable as, well… death.

Death is a necessity in war. General Robert E. Lee was quoted as saying "What a cruel thing is war: to separate and destroy families and friends, and mar the purest joys and happiness God has granted us in this world; to fill our hearts with hatred instead of love for our neighbors, and to devastate the fair face of this beautiful world." Even the natives of Eminiar VII (TOS: A Taste of Armageddon) send people to die in disintegration chambers when their enemies had landed a successful, albeit simulated, attack on their cities. I, myself, am not a fan of killing… or of death in general. I dislike having to end the life of a beautiful young Lieutenant who just wants to see her fiancé one final time, or to kill off the striking and courageous Captain of a destroyer on the front lines of the war. But, I have to do it. Otherwise, who would really believe (in their minds eye, anyways) that war is actually happening here? Having said that, as writers I feel we have a solemn responsibility to treat death as respectfully as we do life. We cannot, and should not, kill indiscriminately purely for 'fluff' or 'filler'. Every death has a meaning in this story, and as cold as it may sound, has a purpose in the grand scheme of everything. With that said, know that I have a heart, and I've tried desperately to portray it in the 'souls' of the people and beings I've created here.

This goes for all of the worlds I've created. As I've fashioned and filled in my universe, I feel as If I understood how Alexander the Great must have felt when he had, purportedly, no further worlds to conquer. I have, however, tried to keep my personal 'delusions of gradeur' in check. A world, a starship, a Starbase, a bridge, or simply standing beside a console… it's all a stage. It's a place for person 'X' to stand, sit, crouch, die, run, punch, kick, or love while they address crewman or problem 'Y'. I've tried to create my stages using every detail I could, as if I were there living the moments, looking though their eyes and enjoying the senses of my surroundings. I only hope, in some small way, I've succeeded.

When it comes to the overall structure of the fleet, I did well to remember that I am, after all, dealing with a fleet. A fleet can be nothing more than a handful of ships gathered for a sole purpose. It can also be a great multitude of ships, gathered for a singular purpose, but then sub-divided into smaller missions that fulfill the ultimate requirement for that singular purpose. Taking into account that Starfleet is vast, a decided to sub-divide it into five manageable fleets, totaling some 7,000+ vessels. That's a lot of ships, not to mention the hundreds of crewmembers than man each one!

You will see in this novel that the 1st Fleet (composed of exactly 1,445 vessels) makes up the Federation's combined effort to fight the Klingon's. Okay, so that's a little easier to wrap your head around, I think. The 1st fleet is subdivided into two Strategic Forces (the 1st and the 3rd, respectfully). Each of these two forces is then divided into three Strategic Squadrons. Each of those, in turn, is further divided into three Strategic Groups. Then, we go one step further in our division of those groups into three Battle Forces. Each BF now consists of roughly 27 ships. You can see how this would get complicated, had I not thoroughly detailed each group in a spreadsheet (and described it here!). The Battle Forces then get divided (by 3, again) into Strike Squadrons which, of course, are made of three individual vessels. Confused? I just wrote this down, and I am, too. Here is a simple breakdown of a section of the 1st Fleet:

1st Fleet, 1445 ships, Unit Code 0

1st Strategic Force, 718 vessels, Unit Code 1

17th Strategic Squadron, 243 vessels, Unit Code 1.2

101st Strategic Group, 82 vessels, Unit Code 1.2.1

3rd Battle Force, 28 vessels, Unit Code

5th Battle Squadron, 9 vessels, Unit Code .3

21st Strike Squadron, 3 vessels, Unit Code .3.1

U.S.S. Enterprise, single vessel, Unit Code .3.1.1

This is not unlike how typical Internet addresses are 'resolved' into names like in your web browser. A unit code is a numerical representation of a physical entity. It's not important to understand the Unit Codes, as they are not used in this novel. If you really want to know, just take the last number and realize that it is "of three". Thus, in the example above, the Enterprise is the 1st ship, of three, that makes up the 21st Strike Group. The 5th Battle Squadron is the 3rd, of three, squadrons that make up the 3rd Battle Force. And so on. I just wanted everyone to know that there is logic to how the fleet is divided. Every ship I've created or destroyed in this series has a place in the 1st Fleet. Once I'm done with this series of novels I will more than likely post my spreadsheet to my website. I know that some people (all you 'linear thinkers' out there) will probably enjoy reading it as much as I have while creating it.

With regards to the Klingon's, I spent little time deciding how I should write these amazingly conceived creatures. As I read through several TOS novels from the 1980's and 1990's, I began to see the pattern of 'what a Klingon is' shift from the brutal, merciless species of the TOS era to the honorable, samurai-like warriors of TNG. In my opinion, a Klingon would be both of these things, but would lean more towards the TOS version. In fact, this version of the Klingon is perfectly conceived in the FASA supplement Klingon's, by John M. Ford (1957-2006). Thus, I have relied heavily on these works for my interpretation.

As with most fan fiction, I have endeavored to pull multiple elements of Trek tighter to form a single, coherent tapestry. In this novel you will find elements from TOS, TAS, TNG, VOY, ENT, various novels, comics, and other fanfic series. Obviously, some dates would have to be changed to fit the arc of my story, but I have endeavored to remain true to whatever medium I was drawing from. In fact, I found that in some cases it was exceedingly easy to fit these stories together with the original Four Years War timeline, as established by FASA. I would highly suggest that all aspiring Trek writes would attempt to do so. While it is slightly more challenging, the reward of universal continuity is more than worth the effort.

I want to thank each of you for reading my work and enjoying the labor of my love. If I have, in some small way, given you a glimpse into a world that is not our own… and if you, for that briefest of time, have found yourself immersed in that moment and sensing the adventure that I've placed you in, then my job is done, and it was done well, indeed.

With all of that being said, I want to welcome you into the next chapter in the war between the United Federation of Planets and the Klingon Empire. So, lean back in your favorite command chair, set the forward viewscreen ahead, and prepare yourself for the coming adventure…


	2. Chapter 1

HOLDING THE LINE

Chapter 1

Stardate 4101.01

January, 2253

Incoming subspace communication…

FROM: The Office of the Commanding Officer, Starfleet Command, Fleet Admiral John Murdock, San Francisco, Earth.

TO: (1) All Commanding Officers, Galaxy Exploration Command.

(2) All Commanding Officers, Military Operations Command.

VIA: The Office of the Commanding Officer, Starfleet Public Relations, Commodore Joselyn Czernovski.

SUBJ: VESSEL DISSAPEARANCES NEAR CONTESTED FEDERATION TERRITORY.

Due to the numerous unexplained disappearances of both private and commercial vessels operating near space currently being contested by Federation and Klingon forces, the following regulations and restrictions are now established as of this stardate:

1. A Zone of Transport Escort now exists. This new zone will stretch from New Paris to Daran V, and will extend from those points to the pre-war boundaries of Federation-Klingon space.

2. Under no circumstances will any merchant or civilian vessel enter this area, unless such vessels are deployed in a convoy, and only if those convoys are under the direct protection of Starfleet Command.

3. All convoys, before departing their assigned home ports of call, must first log all planned routes of travel with Federation Security personnel at the nearest established Starbase or outpost in relation to the convoy's point of origin.

4. All designated convoys must immediately check in with Federation Security personnel upon their arrival at their intended destination.

5. All convoys will be escorted by Starfleet vessels, and it should be understood that all such vessel will be sailing under a flag of war. The number of Starfleet vessels present in the convoy will be dictated by the overall size of the convoy, value of the goods being transported, the amount of enemy resistance assumed or known to exist along the lines of transport, and other such factors that will arise on a case-by-case basis between the vessel masters and Federation Security forces.

6. In addition to the Starfleet vessels escorting such convoys, Federation Marine detachments will also be posted on any escorted vessel while it is in route to its intended destination. The ratio of Marines to civilians that will be assigned to such vessels will be determined by the size of the vessel, the value of the goods being transported, and other such factors that will arise on a case-by-case basis, as determined by Federation Security personnel attached to the convoy.

7. No deviation or unauthorized departure from pre-approved routes of travel will be tolerated under any circumstance by Federation Security forces or Starfleet Command. Any such deviations or departures will be punishable by seizure of cargo, personnel, vessels, and/or forfeiture of trade certifications belonging to all involved offenders.

8. All cargo masters and civilian captains are notified to adjust thier travel and transportation timelines in order to accommodate these new restrictions. Starfleet Command, operating under strict orders from the Federation Council, makes no financial guarantees on any goods or personnel that are being transported within this zone. Starfleet Command will take all required precautions while escorting civilian vessels. Also, any such conflicts that may arise from forces deemed unfriendly towards Federation forces or civilian convoys that they are protecting cannot be anticipated with a high degree of certainty. Vessel masters and their associated corporations should now consider themselves aware of these facts and plan accordingly.

More detailed instructions for the transportation of goods, services, and personnel inside this newly established zone will be transmitted shortly.

"* * * * *"

Stardate 4101.06

January, 2253

The passenger shuttle, S.S. Hotaru, banked slowly to starboard as she came about to her new course. It was truly beautiful out here in space, the captain of the vessel often thought to himself. And even more so now that we've gotten away from the busy space lanes of the inner sphere of the Federation. Deep space afforded him the peace and quiet that he had longed to attain for so many years while his family had lived on Earth. While the Hotaru was nowhere near the deep space that he yearned for at the moment, the vessel was still away from the surface of the planet and sailing gracefully in the soundless voice of near planetoid space, and that was good enough for him.

The planet Ganjitsu was the third spatial body in the Minos Drakkus system, which itself had a total of ten planets of various classifications. The system, according to the popular galactic coordinate system of the time, lay exactly between the Syrenya and Ayirn systems, thus putting Ganjitsu approximately three parsecs from the Federation-Klingon Neutral Zone at any given point in her orbital rotation around her sun.

Ganjitsu, originally settled by conservationists several decades earlier, was governed by strict laws restricting the number of settlers on the surface at any given time, as well as provisional guarantees that the planet would never be overdeveloped. The temperature was usually warm and dry and several varieties of evergreen trees and shrubs that had been transplanted from Earth were now thriving in the temperate climate. The waters of the planets three large oceans were usually cool, and several wide rivers forged their way through the lush forests of the planet. Thus, to most of the colonists, living on Ganjitsu was akin to recreational camping on Earth in a great many respects.

In order for someone to get from colony to colony on the planet's surface, the residents preferred to use the standard Starfleet skimmer—as they were nonpolluting, lightweight, and required very little storage space. If one wished to get around his own settlement, though, the preferred method was simple walking. If, on the other hand, one was required to leave the surface and venture out into space, there were two Mission-class scout ships leased to each of the twelve colonies that were spread evenly along the surface of the nearly virgin planet.

While the S.S. Hotaru, civilian registry F-031774, was nothing more than a glorified shuttlecraft to most, to the helmsman in training that now sat at her controls she was the most beautiful thing in the known galaxy. To him, the vessels angular sides and gradually sweeping forward hull gave the vessel an extremely graceful look. The Hotaru, as she was designed with her FWA-1 warp engines, could cruise at a sustained speed of warp-factor three, while she could attain a maximum warp-factor of five in emergency situations for short durations.

At thirty-one meters long and thirteen meters high, the class was initially laid down as a multipurpose scouting and light capacity cargo vessel. They could carry an estimated six hundred and seventy-five square meters of cargo in the irregularly shaped hold on the lower deck, while the second deck was dedicated to the crew's quarters for the six to nine personnel the vessel could carry. The top most deck was the flight control area—or bridge, if one could go so far as to call it that. The Hortaru had no offensive weapons to speak of, and only a low powered deflector shield to stop interstellar debris from penetrating the hull while the scout was under warp or impulse power.

She had departed the planet Ganjitsu only twenty minutes before. Her mission: taking her passengers on a routine tour of the solar system. Truth be told, there were no paying passengers aboard the Mission-class scout vessel at the moment. There was only the captain—who also served as the navigator—and the young helmsman-in-training at his side. The vessel had been reserved by the captain two months earlier, and he and his would-be helmsman had been looking forward to this flight for quite some time before that—ever since the new pilot in question had turned 16 years old and was now legally allowed to hold the official certification of helmsman.

With the last switch flipped, the Hortaru's captain had finished entering in the last of the required navigational settings, putting the ship in its optimum position for entering warp speed. When the final sequencer was pressed, he slowly turned to his helmsman and—with a slight nod of his head—gave the young man the indication he had been waiting for. The young helmsman returned his captain's nod of approval with a wide smile that spread across his face from ear to ear.

"Course plotted for the eighth planet in the system and standing by, sir." The young man said as calmly as he could muster. The excitement that was welling inside of him was in serious danger of bursting from his pours if he tried to contain it any longer.

"Very good. Navigational systems are online and the engines are at optimum power output." The captain replied.

"Orders, sir?" The helmsman asked, already knowing the next words that would come from the captain's lips.

The captain looked over to his trainee. He was proud of this young man and all that he had accomplished in such a short amount of time. He would make an excellent pilot someday, and was glad to be at his side to help usher the helmsman into the larger universe he was about to enter.

"Very well. Set speed to warp-one and engage."

"Aye, sir." The helmsman replied, setting the requested speed with practiced ease. His finger hovered above the final control that would launch the small vessel passed that very same barrier that had held mankind back for centuries. He wasn't just sending this ship to its future destination; he was—in fact—sending his own life on a new course. He looked to the captain, whose expression was a mirror of the same one the helmsman had displayed only a moment before.

The helmsman then turned his eyes and affixed them to the front viewscreen and pushed the final control. The ship immediately began to hum slightly, and something loose on the deck aft of the cabin rattled for one brief picosecond before the vessel jumped into warp space—with the helmsman allowing a loud exclamation of joy to fill his mind.

An hour later the Hortaru found herself in high orbit of the eighth planet of the Minos Drakkus system. The two man crew of the small cargo ship had been near the planetoid for some time now. The instructor had taken the last hour to familiarize his trainee helmsman with the intricacies of obtaining and departing a standardized obit from a planetary body. Now that the young man seemed to have a firm grasp on the fundamentals—not to mention a few of the more advanced maneuvers—the duo was ready to depart the gas giant planet and return to Ganjitsu.

The eight planet of the Minos Drakkus system—known as Whirlwind by the locals of the system—was a turbulent yellow and green gas giant of a planet. It measured some seventy thousand kilometers at its equatorial radius, eclipsing a planet like Saturn, which itself could easily be located in the helmsman's true home system. Its length of day was roughly thirteen and a half hours as it raced around the primary star of the system at a leisurely pace of one rotation per forty standard earth years.

The S.S. Hotaru, having just emerged from the dark side of Whirlwind, was bathed in the soft light of the distant G-Type main sequence star. There were small droplets of ice crystals on the forward view port of the cargo shuttle that were only now beginning to melt from the distant radiation from the star—despite the nearly fourteen million miles that separated the two bodies.

"That was an excellent turn," The captain said to the helmsman as he completed his final maneuver. "Now, please lay in a course back along our original flight path."

"Yes, sir. Inputting the coordinates now."

"Don't forget to account of stellar drift, fluctuations in gravity wells, the mass of—"

"The mass of the planet in relation to the warp field dynamics of the vessel at near perfect angles to our trajectory? Yes, sir. I'm well aware of all of that." The helmsman replied with an air of petulance.

The captain let out a slight chortle. "Oh, are you?"

"Yes, sir. I am. If the Captain would care to look at the course I've laid in, he'll see that it is—in fact—far more optimum than the original course we took to get here in the first place."

The captain smiled broadly at the cockiness of the young man's tone, then dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand. "No, no. That won't be necessary."

"Of course, sir." The trainee replied, turning back to his instruments as he prepared the ship for warp speed.

"You've gotten pretty cocky over the last few months, you know?" The captain folded his arms across his chest as he leaned back into his chair.

"Well, it's a credit to all of your superb training, sir." The helmsman replied with another smile.

"Don't blow smoke up my exhaust port, son. You're good…damn good. In fact, you may even teach those guys at Starfleet Academy a few things."

The helmsman' smile faded as he turned to his instructor. "Do you really think I have what it takes? I mean… well, I'm just not sure—"

"Of course you do," The captain held his hands up, as if to calm the young mans worries with only the simple gesture. "I don't even know why you worry about it. You're as good as gold."

The young man laughed half heartedly. "That's comforting. You know, gold isn't worth what it used to be."

The captain laughed. "Don't be a smart—"

Without warning, the Hortaru lurched to port abruptly as it registered an impact on its starboard side. The once docile stars on the forward viewscreen fell instantly away under the sharp movement.

"What was that?" The helmsman screamed.

The captain was busily inputting commands into his console beside the trainee. "Sensors are reporting that another vessel has entered the system. They're firing on us again."

"Who's firing on us?" the trainee asked cautiously. The captain didn't have time to respond before the ensuing jolt knocked both men forward into their respective consoles. Fortunately they were still wearing their atmospheric reentry harnesses. It might have pinched a rib or two, but the thick nylon belts had stopped them from going face-first into their respective controls.

"Are you okay, son?" The captain asked.

"I'm fine, sir," he replied, absently whipping off a bead of sweat that had formed on his forehead. "Who is shooting at us?"

The captain's thin eyes were wide with terror. "Klingons, that's who."

"Klingons?" The helmsman repeated breathlessly, turning his attention to the forward view port.

After channeling some emergency power to the ships computer, the captain had managed to bring the short-range sensors online. "Confirmed. There is a single Klingon destroyer just off of our stern."

"We can outrun them."

"Negative," the captain replied disconsolately as he looked to the aft hold of the shuttle before returning his attention to his co-pilot. "That last shot took out the navigational deflector. It'd be suicide to maneuver anywhere at this point. The smallest amount of space dust could penetrate the hull and cause catastrophic damage to the ships systems— not to mention it would probably kill us both in the process."

The immensely large Klingon destroyer glided slowly over the top of the now crippled Hortaru. The captain and his helmsman watched in awe as the large vessel sailed softly over their forward view port, so close in fact that they could count the rivets on the destroyer's lower hull plates. The Klingon vessel, coated in the traditional mottled green paint scheme of the Empire, slowly came to a complete stop just forward of the small, unarmed scout vessel.

On his control panel, the captain of the Hortaru was notified by a blinking switch that the Klingon commander was requesting an audio communication channel be opened. He hesitantly reached his finger to the communications toggle and switched it on.

"This is the Klingon destroyer, K'Frathla," the Klingons deep voice came booming over the Hortaru's intercom. "You are ordered to stand down and prepare to be boarded."

"They want us…as prisoners?" The helmsman asked in a quivering voice.

"I don't think they mean to take us as prisoners." The captain said evenly as he looked around the tight cockpit of the Hortaru. "They probably just want the ship. We're civilians. They'll just as likely kill us the moment they board the ship." The captain tapped the switch that would initiate his reply to the Klingon vessel. "We are a civilian vessel. We are unarmed."

"I do not care whether you are armed or not!" the angry Klingon spat back. "You are an enemy of the Klingon Empire, and you will submit to my commands!"

"My son is aboard. Please, do not shoot!"

The Klingon laughed ominously, and the two men on the Hortaru swallowed hard in unison. "Then you are a fool for brining him into contested space. His death will be on your conscience, not mine!"

"So…this is it?" the helmsman asked, unable to firmly push down the lump in his throat. "I never even got to see San Francisco."

"I'm sorry, son. This is my own fault." The captain offered sadly, placing a soft hand on the younger man's shoulder.

The Klingon's guttural voice came back over the speaker. "Repeat: This is the Klingon destroyer, K'Frathla. Lower your screens and prepare to be boarded or we will destroy you."

The captain, looking to the helmsman one last time, reached for the control that would lower the remnant of the deflector screen. There was so much he hadn't told his son…so much more they had left to explore and discuss…so much—.

Another explosion rocked the Hotaru, this time sending the little craft rolling backwards and causing the Klingon vessel to veer out of their field of view.

This is the end, the captain thought mournfully. I'm ready for it.

The helmsman had somehow managed to regain attitude control of the vessel. He quickly orientated the nose of the scout to face the Klingon head-on once again. If they were going to die, then they would die like men.

As the shuttle nosed itself over, both the captain and the helmsman's jaw both dropped in unison. The Klingon destroyer—or what was left of it—was a smoking, burning, twisted heap of metal in their forward view. The two men turned slowly to one another, both silently asking each other the same question, and then returned their gaze to the ruined Klingon vessel.

Suddenly a photon torpedo streaked from some unknown location behind the Hotaru, hitting the crippled Klingon ship in its bulbous bridge section and sending the stricken craft into a slow flat spin. The Klingon was definitely out for the count, and the two men on the Hortaru breathed a quick sigh of relief. A moment later another voice came over the Hortaru's intercom, but this one was markedly different than the Klingon voice they had heard before. It was softer…more disciplined. And, it was a woman. Both the captain and the helmsman recognized it instantly.

"S.S. Hotaru, this is Captain Lisa Hunter of the Federation scout vessel Aerfen. Please respond immediately."

Oh great, the captain thought. Of all of the people in the galaxy that had to come to my rescue, why did it have to be her? The captain cleared his throat and touched the small blinking yellow control on the console in front of him that would initiate a ship-to-ship communication channel. "This is… err… the Captain of the Hotaru. Thank you for your assistance, Captain Hunter. We are indeed very grateful to you and your crew for saving us."

There was a long moment of silence on the part of the Aerfen's captain, but then her voice came back softly over the speaker. It almost sounded as if she had purposely lowered her voice to a near whisper. "Is this…? Saraoni…is that you?"

Saraoni could instantly tell, as could his trainee sitting meekly at his side, that the Starfleet captain's voice was anything but delighted. "Well…umm…yes, ma'am. It's me." He replied nervously, his voice cracking near the end.

"Oh, brother," Lisa replied exasperated. "You've got to be kidding me.

Saraoni slinked down in his seat, as if the simple maneuver would shield him from the verbal onslaught he knew he was about to receive.

"Hotaru, our sensors are showing an additional life sign on your vessel," Hunter's annoyed tone continued. "And I can only imagine who you've got in there with you."

"Good afternoon, Captain Hunter." The helmsman said, trying to sound as chipper as possible given the fact that five minutes ago he thought he was going to die. Then again, he may still die out here… if Captain Hunter had anything to do with it.

"Good afternoon, indeed." Hunter's otherwise soothing voice said with asperity. "Do you two have any idea how much trouble you could be in right now?"

Saraoni chimed in, pulling himself closer to the intercom speaker. "Well, Captain Hunter…you see…this was just a training flight. I didn't think it would… uhh… be necessary to log—"

"You didn't think it was necessary to log it in with Starfleet Security, is that it, Saraoni?" Hunter said, cutting off her old friend. "Now, you both know that the adjacent sectors are literally crawling with Klingons, don't you?"

"Yes, sir. I do. But—"

Lisa continued unfazed. "And you know that everyone, merchant and civilian alike, is required to be escorted by Starfleet anytime their vessels are inside the new transportation zone, don't you?" Hunter asked, sounding more like an angry mother than a tested Starfleet captain.

Saraoni could only hang his head in shame. "Yes, Captain. I know."

"Ahem." Hunter said with a cough.

"Yes, ma'am." Hikaru Sulu replied from the co-pilot's seat with the same tone of embarrassment.

Captain Hunter let out an unintelligible 'ugh' sound before she continued. "You two could have been killed... probably would have been killed, if the Aerfen hadn't been in on the far side of Whirlwind on a survey mission."

"Yes, captain." Saraoni and the helmsman both said somberly.

"I'm sure you both know what that would have meant, right? It means that I would have to have been the one to deliver the bad news to Shimizu. Do you have any idea what she'd say… what she'd do… if I had to tell her that her beloved husband and her only son had been the victims of Klingon aggression because they were so excited—and when I say excited, feel free to substitute it with the word stupid—that they failed to log their flight plan with Federation Security?"

"She'd probably say we deserved it." The helmsman replied with his usual cockiness before he could filter his thought. He quickly kicked himself for his choice of words.

There was the slightest sound of muffled laughter on the other end of the channel, but it was definitely not from Hunter. "Can it, Hikaru! You could both be in plenty of trouble as it is. You certainly don't need any smart remarks compounding your already exceedingly overwhelming problems." Lisa seemed to withdraw for a moment and, when she finally came back online a few moments later, there was a definite softness in her tone. "Fortunately, you both seem to have the gift for gab. Whatever you were talking about with the Klingon's, it seemed to have distracted him long enough for our presence to go unnoticed."

"But," Hikaru asked, more excited than nervous. "How did you get so close to us without him detecting the Aerfen at all?"

Lisa let out a slow, frustrated sigh. "We used the planets high gravitation field to mask our warp signature until we could get within weapons range."

"That's amazing!" Hikaru exclaimed. "To get a shot, I mean… to get a shot like that, with one-hundred percent accuracy, you'd have to have gotten within… what? A thousand meters? And he didn't detect you at all? Wow. Maybe you can teach me that maneuver sometime?" Hikaru asked, completely forgetting his situation for the moment.

"You're on thin ice here, kid, so don't push your luck. A stunt like this could get you knocked out of the Academy entrance program altogether."

"Yes, sir." Hikaru replied dejectedly.

"And, just for your information, I got to within seven-hundred and fifty meters before I fired. I wasn't going to take any chances."

"Wow…" Both of the Sulu men said in slow unison.

Lisa voice was almost chipper now, but was still laced with a thin edge of annoyance. "Just keep your wits about you a little while longer, okay Hikaru? And Saraoni, I'm not going to mention this to the Federation authorities… this time. You better not make a fool out of me and pull some crazy harebrain stunt like this again."

"Yes, ma'am." The two men replied together, far more chipper than they were a moment before.

Lisa couldn't help but let out a soft chuckle. "Okay, you two. That's good enough for me. Stand by while we engage our tractor beam," Hunter said, then turned her voice down a notch. "We both need to get out of here, and fast—before any more Klingon's show up looking for their friends."


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Stardate 4102.17

February, 2253

"Captain to the bridge. Repeat: Captain Steinbrecker, please report to the bridge."

There was nothing that Carlos Steinbeck despised more than being called to duty while he was engaged in a conversation with a beautiful woman. He had planned this date for the last week, and to say that he was angered to have it called to end so abruptly would have been a galactic understatement. The captain and the woman in question were now in the turbolift and on their way to the bridge. The Tikopia-class heavy cruiser U.S.S. Discovery, its name dating back to the HMS Discovery—one of the ships commanded by Captain James Cook during his third and final major voyage from 1776 to 1779, when he became the first European to contact the Hawaiian Islands on Earth—had been out of Space Dock for almost two months now and was on a similar voyage of exploration some five-hundred years after her namesake plied the oceans of Carlo's home world. The ship had just completed taking on several new crewmembers during her last layover at the Federation outpost on Fenbly VII. Some of the personnel were much needed crew replacements, while others were battle hardened veterans from the front lines who were eager to slow their lives down from all the action that was happening light years away.

One such crewman that had been transferred off of the ship was the chief medical officer, Doctor Guy Maltos. Maltos had contracted a rare viral strain of Deltonian flu while conducting a routine medical examination on a wounded Deltonian on their home world. While the disease was not considered life threatening in its current stage, it was highly likely that it could become fatal if it wasn't treated in short order. Steinbrecker, depressed about the thought of loosing his old friend, had immediately decided to transfer the doctor off of the ship at Fenbly. Doctor Maltos was sure to get the medical help he needed and, in the meantime, Steinbrecker had called on Starfleet Command to send him a new CMO.

Enter in Doctor Hollie Cort of Earth. She had been the former Chief Medical Officer of the light cruiser Cowpens, and she had a fairly bland service record, as far as Steinbrecker was concerned. Once she had beamed aboard the Discovery from Fenbly, she had immediately made her way to the captain's quarters to introduce herself to her new commanding officer. Any such apprehensions Carlos had about her service record quickly faded from memory as Steinbrecker gazed in a near speechless state at the lovely new doctor.

In truth, Captain Steinbrecker was having a difficult time determining what exactly was inexorably drawing him to the new medical officer in the first place. She was quite beautiful—that much he could instantly tell the moment she had appeared at his cabin. She was about five feet tall, with dark red hair that cascaded slowly down her gently sloping shoulders. Her skin was soft and pale, giving off a warm glow under the soft lights of the ships overhead. The sapphire color of her eyes was exemplified by her blue uniform tunic, which clung to her well shaped form. She was also quite intelligent—that much he had discerned from the conversation they were currently having in the turbolift on the various xenobiological differences between the assorted humanoid species that dominated this sector of space. And then there was her smell. She had the intoxicating scent of jasmine—that beautiful smelling flower that flourished in the Eastern European continent of Steinbrecker's upbringing. It drew out memories of endless valleys and gentle sloping hills that, for Carols, had been pushed back to the periphery of his mind since the war with the Klingon's had started. Her intoxicating smell now wafted into his nose as they rode the seemingly cramped turbolift together to the bridge. This last fact, Carlos thought to himself in amusement, seemed to seal his desire to become close friends with the new chief medical officer.

The doors to the turbolift open all too suddenly as it arrived at the top deck of the ship. Captain Steinbrecker strode swiftly to the communications station while the new doctor glided over to converse with the ships science officer, Lieutenant Reuben Malabey, a former collogue of hers from Starbase 2.

Steinbrecker approached that lanky Lieutenant Pernesky with a slightly worried look on his face. "Yes, Lieutenant. What is it?" Carlos asked the gold shirted man at the communications station.

"Sir, the 11th Strike Squadron is approaching the designated rendezvous coordinates. Commander Komak is hailing us from the U.S.S. Altair."

Carols ran his hands together, attempting to dry the sweat that had formed on his palms as he wondered while he was being summoned to the bridge so abruptly. Thank God it's not Klingon's, he thought to himself. Carlos looked to the science station and noted with satisfaction that, as soon as his eyes fell on the stunning new medical officer, she glanced up from her conversation with Lieutenant Commander Malabey and allowed a slight smile to tug at the corners of her full lips. He returned the same smile and looked back to Lieutenant Pernesky.

"Open a visual channel to Commander Komak, please."

"Yes, sir. Right away." And with a curt nod, the channel was open.

Carlos moved in into the command chair in the center of the bridge and waited as the visual image of Komak wavered before him. The 11th Strike Squadron was right on time. There had been multiple reports of Klingon movements in this sector over the last few days, and Starfleet had wasted little time combining the efforts of multiple squadrons in order to clear out as many of the enemy vessels as possible, especially given their currently strained resources. With the arrival of Komak's ships, the 5th Battle Squadron was officially formed up.

Steinbrecker's own group, the 28th Strike Squadron, consisted of a pair if Loknar-class frigates—the U.S.S. Rome and U.S.S. Halk. Six hours ago they had linked up with the 32nd Strike Squadron, which was made up of the heavy cruiser Sardar and her two frigates—the London and the Trantis. The 11th Strike Squadron—with the cruiser Altair, and the frigates Berlin, and the Salos—was the last piece of the puzzle.

The star field image on the main viewscreen wavered one last time and was replaced by the sharp image of Commander James Komak. His dark hair, pulled loosely back over his scalp, framed his already somber face with even more pronounced seriousness. His gray eyes pierced across space back at his old friend onboard the Discovery.

"U.S.S. Altair, we are receiving your transmission." Carlos began.

"Greetings, Captain Steinbrecker. I hope we're not too late?" Komak asked with a thin smile.

Carlos returned the gesture. "On the contrary, Commander Komak, I think you've gotten to the party before our honored guests have arrived."

Komak nodded curtly. "Glad to hear it, Captain. The 11th Strike Squadron is now at your disposal, sir. I only hope that we haven't traveled the last fifteen light-years to escort a few freighters across open space."

Carlos's smile broadened at Komak's words. "It's good to see you, James. It's been a few months since we've had visual contact. Not since—"

Komak cleared his throat abruptly. "Not since that little…umm…encounter on Muraski, right?"

Carlos was at a loss for words. Komak had actually gotten Steinbrecker out of a pretty tight spot on the planet during their last encounter, to which Carols would probably be in James's debt forever. Carols wanted to bring up the point that it was—in fact—not entirely his fault that the woman behind the altercation was an ambassador, and that he was totally unaware of that fact in the few moments leading up to the unfortunate encounter that had taken place, but he decided against saying anything to Komak at this time. It could wait until later.

"Well, I was certainly glad you were there to render assistance, James. Starfleet owes you a huge debt."

"Don't mention it. Please." Komak offered, bowing his head slightly and holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

"And so I won't," Carlos replied, his smile fading from his face. It was time to get back to the job at hand. "Stand bye to receive operational orders regarding our first sector assignment."

"Oh?" Komak asked curiously. "And where would that be, exactly?"

"Altimus Sector." Steinbrecker said as he was handed an electronic styles from a waiting yeoman.

"Altimus? Interesting. There isn't much there." Komak replied, almost in disgust at the mention of the name.

"Well, we'll start with Plot 1-10 and move into the sector on a spiral pattern. The first system we should come into contact with is Nostveg."

Komak shook his head from side to side slowly and chuckled. "Nostveg. You really are trying to kill us with boredom, aren't you Carlos?"

"I'm sure we can scare up a few asteroids for you to shoot at, Commander." Steinbrecker said sarcastically.

"Don't do us any favors, sir." Komak replied dead-pan. James recalled with distaste the last asteroid clearing mission that his squadron had been placed on. The image of a large stray asteroid, unnoticed by the sensor officer on the Altair until the last moment, pummeled the side of the cruiser at nearly one-quarter impulse power. The impact had simultaneously taken out the transporter systems and three of the impulse reactors. It was all Komak could do to limp his ship back to the nearest dry dock for repairs. A shiver ran up his spine as he continued to address Steinbrecker. "We're ready to receive the operational orders, sir."

Carlos turned his head and nodded to Malabey, who had since finished his conversation with the lovely Dr. Cort. "Transmitting." The science officer replied.

Carlos shifted his left leg over his right and straightened his uniform tunic. "Be prepared to get underway within the hour, Commander Komak."

"Altair copies, sir."

Carlos waved his finger to his forehead in a mock salute. "Discovery, out." When the channel was closed he scanned the bridge and, not finding his intended target, locked his gaze with Lieutenant Commander Malabey once more. "Where is Dr. Cort?"

"I believe she said she had to get back to sickbay, sir. Something about a lab analysis that she had momentarily forgotten about."

"Well," Carols began, paused, and then slapped his hands together as he quietly looked around the bridge for a brief moment. "Well, Commander Malabey. That is just where I intended to go. Please take command of the ship in my absence. I believe I'm scheduled for my physical in the next few minutes."

Malabey, his almond colored eyes squinting with confusion, cocked his head slightly in confusion. "I wasn't aware of any such appointment, sir. As first officer I should—"

"As first officer you should have been notified immediately, of course." Carlos interrupted quickly. "After all, it is standard procedure that the first officer be informed any time the captain has a pending appointment. I completely agree. In fact, I'll let the doctor know right now that she made a serious breach of protocol by not informing you directly."

And, before Malabey could begin to formulate any kind of protest, the captain had ejected himself from the command chair and was inside the turbolift. Destination: Sickbay.

"* * * * *"

"…and so I said to the Jordanian, 'Why not? I've already got you on six charges of conspiracy." Carlos said, holding up six of his fingers, then uncurled a seventh while heartily chortling. "Why not make it seven?'"

Doctor Cort, sitting casually behind her desk in sickbay, let out a loud laugh and, trying to catch her breath afterwards, managed to let out a stifled snort as she attempted to continue her conversation with Captain Steinbrecker. "And what did he say to that?"

Carlos clasped his hands together and leaned his backside on the side of her desk closest to her. "What could he say? He was caught red handed."

Hollie held her hand to her lips, stopping the last bit of laughter, then placed them down demurely into her lap. "Well, that's quite a story, Captain."

"If you stay out in deep space long enough, you're bound to see just about anything." He tried to flash his most dashing smile at the red-haired siren, hoping that he wasn't being too forward with his new acquaintance.

The smile she returned was completely genuine, and nearly melted the captain right where he stood. "Of that I have no doubts, Captain."

Carlos stood up and straightened his tunic. "Please, call me Carlos. 'Captain' is so… so damn formal."

An eyebrow rose on her soft white forehead. "I wasn't aware that we were on informal terms, sir." She replied coyly.

Steinbrecker smirked. "The why don't we agree to be on them." Too fast, you idiot. Too fast! Slow down! Engines, full reverse!

Doctor Cort lowered her voice to a barely audible whisper, although both of the officers were aware that sickbay was completely empty at this time. "Are you sure that's wise, sir? I mean… Carlos?"

Carlos needed to act quickly or possibly loose this chance forever. "Why not? I'm the Captain, and you are my chief medical officer. We are going to be working very closely together while we're both assigned to this vessel, which I hope will be for a very long time to come. I think it's wise for senior officers to get to know one another. It helps build trust."

Hollie then seemed to come out a self-imposed shell as she stood and extended her hand to the captain. "I really do have to agree with you. I've often felt very… sequestered during my previous assignment. The captain didn't seem to want anything to do with me, unless one of the crew was injured, of course. Then, it was 'yes, sir' and 'right away, sir' and 'I'll get him or her back to duty as soon as I can, sir.'" She smiled and relaxed her posture. "It was all very disquieting."

Carlos released her feather-soft hand. "Then I hope your tour here will allow all of your talents to shine through marvelously. And by the way, please don't feel like a stranger on my bridge. You are welcome anytime." Hollie's blue eyes sparkled even brighter and she grinned from ear to ear. Seeing that this news seemed to elate her, Carlos pressed his advantage and continued to doll out luxuries on her. "I understand you minored in psychology while you were at Starfleet Medical. I think that might come in handy from time to time in dealing with new cultures."

"You mean... you're going to include me the happenings of the ship?" She asked excitedly.

"Of course. In fact, I'm sure you'll be just as valuable on landing parties as you will be on the ship."

Doctor Cort let out an audible giggle as she looked wide-eyed at the handsome captain, for which she quickly kicked herself on the inside for doing so. You're acting like a love-struck schoolgirl. Heartbeat is fluttering. Slow down! "You're kidding? You're going to let me accompany you on landing parties… even though they may not immediately require my medical expertise?"

"Absolutely." Captain Steinbrecker replied with a grin. "Don't tell me you've never gotten to go planetside before?"

She rolled her sapphire eyes. "Well, of course I did, but only when it was immediately necessary for me to be there. I was never asked to go on first contact missions of any kind, if that's what you're implying." Hollie then let out a soft sigh and, smiling, shook her head slowly from side to side. "Captain, if you're trying to woo me into remaining onboard here for a long time, then you are succeeding mightily."

"That's what I wanted to hear, Hollie. In fact, how about we grab something to eat for dinner? I'm sure we have a lot we could discuss, starting with finishing that conversation we started on xenobiology." Carlos offered her a hand as he inclined his head towards the doorway.

The ships intercom came on and Commander Malabey's voice sprang from the wall mounted speaker. "Captain Steinbrecker, please report to the bridge."

Oh, dear Lord. Not again. Not twice in as many hours. Carlos walked to the wall communications terminal and, pressing the blinking white button, acknowledged the request. "Yes, Commander. What's going on up there that needs my immediate attention this time? We aren't due to get underway for another twenty minutes."

"Sir, long-range sensors have picked up a Klingon task force nearing the Nostveg system. Their speed is warp-factor three."

Carlos looked to Hollie, who wore a deeply worried expression on her face. Whether it was done subconsciously or not, she slowly walked the three steps it took to be at his side.

"Captain, I hate to admit it… but I'm frightened. I've never been in a combat situation like this before."

Carlos reached out a hand and placed in gently on her shoulder. "Everything will be okay, Hollie. We can handle anything that the Klingon's can throw at us," It was if his words alone were enough to abate her fears. Her once stiff posture returned to a semblance of the calm she had held a few moments before, and Carols could feel the muscles of her shoulder relax under his palm. "Why don't you accompany me to the bridge and see for yourself?"

She reached up to her shoulder and placed her hand gingerly over his, smiling peacefully at the captain in the process. "I'd like that… Carlos."

"* * * * *"

Captain Steinbrecker and Doctor Cort arrived on the bridge and immediately exited the turbolift. The Captain strode quickly to the science officer's side as the doctor slowly glided to the side of the command chair.

"Commander Malabey, report."

Malabey, tall and lanky, removed his eyes from the sensors hood and turned to face his captain.

"Sir, long-range sensors are definitely picking up enemy activity near Nostveg."

"Helmsman," Steinbrecker turned to the officer at the helm. "If we set a course for Nostveg at maximum warp, how long until we would arrive in the system?"

Lieutenant Bobbi Lau turned her head to face the captain, her long dark hair swaying slightly with the quick motion. "Approximately four hours and twenty-eight minutes at warp-factor six, sir."

Carlos turned his attention back to Malabey. "Can you give me an exact numbers of the enemy vessels in the system?"

Malabey looked briefly to his instruments, waved his hand dismissively, then retuned his gaze to Carlos. "Not at this range. We'll need to be within one parsec to get that information, sir."

Steinbrecker stepped down to the command deck and stood behind the helmsman. "Lieutenant Lau, get me into that parsec."

"Aye, aye Captain."

"Mr. Pernesky?"

"Yes, sir?" The dimple faced young man at communications asked.

"Hail the lead starships of each of the squadrons and inform them to follow us in."

"Aye, sir."

Steinbrecker turned from the science station and thrust himself into the command chair. He saw the seriousness of Hollie's expression as she stood by his left side.

Up to this point, the doctor had been silent as she stood near the command chair. But, if the captain was truly serious with his offer that Doctor Cort should feel free to speak her mind, then by God she would. "You're not seriously entertaining the idea of picking a fight with the Klingon's?" she asked far more softly than she thought she would.

He regarded her for a moment before he turned his attention to the forward viewer in total seriousness. "In fact I am, Doctor."

She stepped from the side of the chair and into Steinbrecker's direct view. "But… you don't even know how many enemy ships are in that sector. There could be dozens—or more."

Carlos pursed his lips, shook his head from side to side, and then shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe there is, and maybe it's simply a convoy of helpless freighters that are just ripe for the picking."

Hollie Cort looked exceedingly unconvinced. "But, you don't know that. It's a big risk, if you ask me." She let the seriousness of her words sink in, hoping at once that she hadn't overstepped her bounds.

Carlos whipped his head in her direction and glared at her, far more angry than he intended to be, but she had pushed a button and she was about to get a response. "Yes, Doctor…it's a risk, but these are the risks we need to take. And—if you ask me—we need to start taking them more often. The Federation isn't going to win this war if we're always on the defensive. We need to be more proactive if we hope to succeed in confrontations out here." He waved his hand tersely at the forward viewer. Steinbrecker had intended to say as much to his bridge crew for some time. They needed to know why they were out here and that their captain wasn't going to back down from any fight they were presented with. The crew, he felt, needed that center of courage right now—as did many of the Starfleet crews manning the hundreds of vessels in the war zone.

Carols could see the anger burning behind her bright blue eyes as Hollie silently glared back at him. He face turned red, and she had been pursing her lips tightly together as she gathered the words she had to say… simultaneously pushing down the ones that she really wanted to say. "Then it sounds like my services will be more suited for sickbay than the bridge. If you will excuse me, Captain." She said heatedly, turning and walking slowly toward the turbolift.

As the lift doors closed behind her, Carlos inwardly hoped he hadn't hurt her feelings too severely. While he fully understood that hurt feelings were nowhere near as important as the lives of Federation citizens, Captain Steinbrecker silently prayed that he would live long enough to make it up to Hollie.

Pernesky chimed in from the communications stations, breaking the deafening silence on the bridge in the wake of Doctor Cort's departure. "The fleet is standing by, sir."

"Helmsman, ahead—warp factor six."

"* * * * *"

"Sir, we're approaching the Nostveg system." The ships helmsman stated.

Commander James Komak, seated in the command chair of the Altair, uncrossed his legs and leaned toward the main viewscreen.

"Sensor readings, Commander Magoon," he asked to the science officer. "What's in the system?"

Lieutenant Commander Tabitha Magoon, her face buried into the sensor readout, one hand busily accessing the ships library computer and fine tuning the long-range sensors with the other, attempted to get a clear picture of the enemy presence in the Nostveg system. "We are just coming into extreme sensor range now, sir. Sensors are showing multiple enemy contacts."

"Can you give me exact numbers and hull types?" Komak asked impatiently.

"One moment, sir." She replied, inputting some final figures into the ships library computer. "Information is being correlated within the computer, sir. It should have an accurate reading in a moment."

Komak turned his attention away from the forward viewer and looked to the science station. The ships computer was working feverously—taking all of the available sensor data, astrometic information, speed of the Federation task force, and other such highly detailed data into account in order to produce the most accurate reading available.

Magoon, her long blonde hair spilling over the hood of the sensor scanner, began reading off the information. "Confirmed, sir. Multiple enemy contacts. I'm reading five squadrons of Klingon destroyers, all D-16 type."

"Five squadrons?"

"Yes, sir." She said flatly. "Each squadron seems to consist of three vessels."

"That makes a total of fifteen ships against the nine of our task force." Komak said aloud to himself as he slowly turned back to the forward view screen. "Have they scanned us yet, Commander?"

"No, sir. We're still outside the sensor cone of the D-16's. Thankfully, the Klingon's don't have anything larger in the system than destroyers or we would have been detected already."

"Then we have the element of surprise." Komak said, more of a statement than a question.

"I'd say that's a logical assumption, sir."

Komak smiled to himself. Five squadrons of D-16's was a formidable force, but the odds that the nine Federation vessels would be victorious were just about even. What the six Starfleet frigates of the 5th Battle Force lacked in available firepower, the three Tikopia-class heavy cruisers more than made up for it. And, since the Starfleet crews had the element of surprise, they were truly fortunate.

How did that old Irish blessing go, Komak thought to himself. 'A world of wishes at your command.

God and his angels close to hand.' The Federation task force couldn't have wished for a better situation, and—hopefully—God was close at hand to help them win the day.

"Communications officer, open a channel to the Discovery. I want to talk to Captain Steinbrecker right away."

"* * * * *"

"So, your sensors are telling you the same thing as mine?" Komak asked.

Steinbrecker nodded across the communications channel. "They are, Commander. What did you have in mind?"

Komak smiled broadly, then leaned in his chair towards the screen as if to make his statement more poignant. "How about a blitz, Captain?"

Steinbrecker dark eyes narrowed as he inclined his head. "A blitz, did you say?"

"Yes, Captain. A blitz. I say we don't waste any time in delving out some chaos to those Klingon's in that system."

Carols smiled. "You just want to rush right in with all guns blazing?"

Komak shrugged his shoulders. "Well, why not? Let's throw them into confusion with a quick strike from the Discovery, the Altair, and the Sardar—then call in the frigates to mop up the pieces."

Steinbrecker considered the plan for a moment. He looked to Malabey for any sign of concern the science officer might have had over Commander Komak's plan. Malabey only offered a slow nod of his head with raised eyebrows, saying "It could work, sir."

That was all that Steinbrecker needed to know. "Then, Commander Komak, let's not waste any time. I'll send out the battle plans to the frigates. Please contact the Sardar and inform them we will move into the Nostveg system in five minutes."

"Our sensors are showing that the Klingon's are orbiting Nostveg III." Komak offered.

Carlos turned to the science officer, indicating that he should speak loud enough for both of the starship captains to hear. "Mr. Malabey, what do we know about that planet?"

"Nostveg III is a Type-N planetoid. It has an extremely high surface temperature due to massive amounts of carbon dioxide and corrosive sulfides in the air. The surface is quite barren. Its close proximity to the Nostveg star would make it extremely prone to both delta and gamma radiation bombardments."

"Could we use that to our advantage?" Carlos asked, sitting on the edge of his seat.

"Possibly. The radiation could shield us from the Klingon's sensors for an additional few minutes."

Komak's image chimed in at the revelation. "How many minutes, Commander?"

Malabey shrugged his shoulders slowly, looking from Komak to Steinbrecker. "Five…perhaps a few more."

Carlos turned his attention back to the viewscreen. "I don't think we'll need more than that, wouldn't you say, James?"

"That should be more than enough time to inflict some real damage, Captain."

Steinbrecker grinned from ear to ear. "Then, let's not doddle. Helmsman, ahead full impulse. Navigator, raise shields and arm all weapons."

"Good hunting, Captain Steinbrecker." Komak said.

"And you as well, Commander." Carlos replied, and then silenced the communications channel.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The nine Federation starships of the 5th Battle Squadron had quickly organized themselves into the blitz pattern that Commander Komak had suggested. The plan was to launch a three-tier attack against the Klingon's. This would plan would have each of the individual Strike Squadrons dividing out from the main squadron body and attacking different targets, in three overlapping waves, from multiple vectors.

The first wave would consist of the Komak's 11th Strike Squadron, led by the Discovery, flanked on either side in a trailing-V formation by the frigates Rome and Halk. The second wave, the 32nd Strike Squadron, with the frigates London and Trantis arranged similarly, would be led by Captain Navarra of Joridinia, onboard the Sardar. The third and final wave would see the Steinbrecker's Altair taking the lead of the 28th Strike Squadron, flanked by the ubiquitous Loknar-class frigates Berlin and the Salos.

As soon as the Starfleet vessels had arrived at the prearranged coordinates just outside of the sensor range of the Klingon's near Nostveg III, it was apparent to all of the Federation vessel commanders that Klingon tacticians had very little in common with their Federation counterparts. The fifteen Klingon vessels, all D-16 type Swiftwind destroyers, were arranged in a near haphazard fashion around the equator of the turbulent yellow planetoid. The first group of Klingon's that had been located on the short-range sensors, two squadrons made up of three ships each, were apparently leaving orbit and heading out from the planet in a spiral pattern that would put them at a forty-five degree angle to the current course of 5th Battle Squadron. Another trio of ships was on a vector that would take it across the bow of the first two groups that had been spotted, assuming none of the commanders changed course to avoid the ensuing collision. Finally, the last two squadrons of six destroyers were on the far side of Nostveg III, and were packed so tightly together that it left very little room for any type of emergency maneuvers, should the Klingon's get into any trouble.

And, as it was, trouble had found them all—and it was about to swoop in on them in a blur of gleaming white Starfleet thermocoat and wave after wave of laser fire. The first group of six D-16's would be the first to fall victim to the 5th Battle Squadron. The radiation that science officer Malabey onboard the Discovery had wanted to use as a buffer between the two opposing forces was working perfectly, and the Klingon's didn't detect the Federation vessels until it was too late for them. When the location of each Klingon vessel had been locked into the ship's computers, and each of their individual courses had been estimated, the Federation Battle Squadron split up and began their blitz run.

However, much to the surprise of the Captain Steinbrecker on the Discovery, only two of the six D-16's that were farthest away from the impending battle zone noticed the 28th Strike Squadron moving into an attack position. The four remaining Klingon vessels continued lazily along their previous flight path at one-quarter impulse. A moment after the two cruisers had passed over the four, as if some divine epiphany had struck the commanders of those vessels, the four stragglers turned and increased speed to follow the others.

Steinbrecker ordered the Discovery to get ahead of her frigate escorts by over two full ship length—or just over six-hundred meters. Just as the Klingon's, now in a trailing-V formation of their own, were about to be rewarded with a trio of Federation starships entering into their weapons range, they watched in shock as they realized a moment too late that they were already inside the weapons range of the Federation medium cruiser. The Discovery reached out across nearly three-thousand meters of space, firing will full lasers until she had gained another five hundred meters, then began to fire her accelerator cannons at the flanking Klingon destroyers. Her beams and missiles streaked out to both port and starboard and registered impacts, then she continued on past the two stricken Swiftwind's in search of another target. Not far behind the Discovery was the frigates Rome and Halk, each taking aim at one of the damaged destroyers that now lay directly ahead of them. In moments, after a barrage of heavy laser and torpedo fire from the small but vicious Starfleet vessels, the two Klingon ships were little more than twisted floating heaps of scrap metal. The 28th Strike Squadron then took to focusing their combined firepower against the sole surviving Klingon D-16 from the ill fated Klingon squadron.

Meanwhile, the remaining three Klingon destroyers that had made up the initial formation of six turned to face off against the 28th Strike Squadron in an attempt to even the odds. And, just as the Federation commanders had planned, they were quickly intercepted by the unseen second tier of the Federation blitz—the 32nd Strike Squadron—with the cruiser Sardar in the lead and all forward batteries blazing. The frigate Trantis, in an unplanned but devastating maneuver, had also targeted the same D-16 that had presented itself to the Sardar. The Loknar-class Trantis was firing its red-hot dorsal lasers in a nearly continuous stream at roughly five-hundred meters distance from her target, pouring every ounce of available energy into the bursts. The beams hit the Klingon destroyer in the center of the long, thin neck that connected the bulbous bridge module to the sweeping and angular secondary hull. This area had come to be called the 'sweet spot' when attacking Klingon vessels. This was because, whether due to an inherent structural flaw in the Klingon design or some other detrimental factor, the fact was that when the D-16 was hit directly in this spot for a prolonged period of time, the shields in that area would fall far faster than in any other area of the ship with the same amount of sustained weapons contact. Thus, as a result of the combined firepower from both the Sardar and the Trantis, the Klingon's shields in that area failed almost instantly. In the next moment a volley of nuclear-tipped accelerated warheads streamed out from the Starfleet heavy cruiser and the ensuing explosion severed the Klingon ship neatly in two. This had the effect of sending the remaining two Klingon vessels in the squadron into confusion as they attempted to turn away from the bisected destroyer that now floated dangerously close to their hulls.

The three ships of the 32nd wasted little time in ganging up on the disorganized Klingons. The Sardar, having set her lasers to half power, swiftly took down the port shields on the D-16 that was directly abeam of her. Captain Navarra had made a vow to himself and to his crew to take the Klingon ship in one piece—if it was possible.

The Joridinia Captain Navarra, his small black eyes fixed on the image of the crippled Klingon vessel on the viewer, address the communications officer without breaking eye contact with his victim. "Lieutenant Goda, get me the London on a secure channel."

Lenna Goda, the youngest member of the Sardar's bridge crew, ran her long brown fingers over the communications terminal like a concert pianist. A second later, with her hand firmly on her earpiece, she announced "Captain, I have Commander Frampton standing bye."

Navarra looked to the armrest on his chair and, noting that the ship-to-ship channel had been fed to his speaker, flipped the blinking communications toggle on the panel. "Commander Frampton, this is Captain Navarra."

"Go ahead, Captain. We're receiving you loud and clear." Frampton's voice was calm and collected.

"Commander, I want to capture that vessel if we can manage it. Do you think you could provide cover for us while I beam over a security detachment?"

Commander Frampton no longer wondered why other Starfleet officers had nicknamed Captain Navarra 'the Eagle.' He was seeing it now. Navarra would swoop in, wound his prey with a quick strike, and then pick it apart in his own time. "I don't think that will be a problem, sir."

Navarra could tell that the commander on the other side of the channel, separated in space by less than a thousand meters, was smiling broadly at the receipt of this new tactic. "Excellent, Commander Frampton. Bring the remainder of the enemy's shields down with half power lasers, but keep your eyes on the lookout and your cannons at the ready, just in case we run into any trouble."

"Understood, Captain."

"Sardar out," Navarra flipped the switch that would close the channel. He inputted another command into the chair's controls and a moment later he was connected with the chief security officer. "Lieutenant Durnell, this is the Captain. I need a fully armed security detachment in the transporter room immediately."

Durnell, the fresh faced junior lieutenant who had recently been promoted to security chief after the departure of the last head of security, was eager to impress his captain and thankful for this new assignment. He liked that fact that, rather than take orders while in a landing party, he now had the responsibility of giving them. It was just the way he liked it. "A boarding party?" he asked in response to the captain's query, although he already knew the answer. Your powers of observation aren't going to win you any prizes for that one, he thought as he silently kicked himself.

"That's correct, Lieutenant. The safety of your team is paramount, but your number one priority is the capture of that ship and anything inside it, and that includes prisoners. We need that vessel in one piece, Lieutenant."

"Aye, sir. We'll be in the transporter room in two minutes."

"Excellent. I'll signal you from the bridge when we're ready to have you transported over. Navarra out."

Once the captain had signed off, Durnell grabbed a handful of his best men and headed briskly for the ships armory.

The London, having aimed her underpowered weapons at key points along the Klingon's hull, expertly took down the remainder of the enemy shields with only three short bursts from her forward lasers, while the Klingon's inept return fire missed each and every time.

Commander Frampton, knowing that is was now or never, quickly swiveled his command chair to face the communications station. "Hail the Sardar and inform them we have them covered, and that they may begin boarding operations at their leisure."

Ensign Roxie Hovart smiled broadly. "With pleasure, sir."

Seconds later Lieutenant Mike Durnell, with the rest of his detachment of three male and two female security officers, beamed aboard the stricken Klingon destroyer. The group of officers had materialized inside a large void near the aft end of the vessel. The chief engineer on the Sardar had determined ahead of time that engineering, not the bridge, would be the best place to start the takeover of the ship. If any Klingon on the bridge had ordered a self-destruct of the vessel, the order would have to be transmitted down here to initiate the detonation. And—if the bridge had been destroyed or damaged in any way—the Starfleet officers could simply take control of the ship via auxiliary control, which the initial scans from the Sardar had told Durnell and his detachment that such a compartment was likely to be near the ships engine room.

Durnell and his men gazed around at the various pieces of equipment that were surrounding them—or at least, everything they could see through the dimly lit confines of the space. There was a small stack of crates near one wall and computer terminals on two others. The bulkheads, overhead, and the deck all seemed to be colored the same motley rust brown. In the darkness of the space it was difficult at times where one wall would end and another would begin. Overhead, from some unseen alcoves, small spot lights had been installed to light the floor below, while others were pointed towards the computers on the bulkheads. In the rear of the compartment was the warp intermix chamber. It looked, for all accounts, like a fusion of typical Klingon technology mixed haphazardly with and overtly Federation design, although Durnell fully understood that all warp engines—regardless of which species had ultimately developed it—all seemed to look somewhat alike. The laws of physics were, after all, quite universal, and this leant to overwhelming similar designs between multiple cultures.

As one of the Starfleet security men, a young human ensign named Sullenger, strode to within a few meters of one of the computers, a violent bolt of green energy lanced out from a catwalk above the Federation officers, striking the bulkhead just behind him and bathing the landing party in a shower of white sparks. Sullenger, a man who had distinguished himself onboard the Sardar as something of an amateur boxer, took ample use of his training in that sport, quickly sidestepping out of the way of the beam the moment before it would have struck his shoulder. His leap took him directly into the path of Ensign Katie Reger, and the two young officers fell to the deck in a blur of arms and legs, but then quickly recovered and rolled to their feet, laser pistols drawn and pointed to the gloom of the overhead.

"Take cover!" Durnell shouted as his team quickly dove to find the most ample cover they could find. "Shoot to stun, but kill if you have too!"

"* * * * *"

Outside of the skirmish waging inside the Klingon destroyer, about ten kilometers from the Sardar's hull, the ships of the 11th Strike Squadron—forming the third and final tier of the three-pronged Federation offensive pattern—intercepted one of the two remaining complete squadrons of Klingon vessels. Unlike the first two Starfleet waves, however, each of the squadron's vessels squared off against a single Klingon destroyer. The Klingons, on the other hand, seemed to have a different idea altogether.

Two of the Klingon destroyers, firing alternating patterns of disruptor and torpedo barrages, took down the shields of the first Federation vessel to come into their weapons range, the small frigate U.S.S. Berlin. The Berlin, trying as she might, simply could not maneuver fast enough to avoid the multiple impacts she was being subjected to.

On the bridge of the light cruiser Altair, Commander Komak watched as the Berlin's skipper attempted a bold move to position his frigate out of the line of fire of another volley of enemy torpedoes. The Berlin was trying to move up on her Z-axis, but she hadn't been fast enough. Green disruptors beams sprang from the D-16's that were on both her port and starboard sides. The port warp nacelle of the Berlin suddenly exploded under the onslaught, leaving only the forward half of itself still attached to the single pylon, which was now twisted upwards at an irregular angle after the destruction.

Seeing that the Berlin was quickly dying, Komak ordered the Altair and Salos to take aim at the Klingon destroyer closest to the fading Federation frigate. The two untouched Starfleet vessels made little work of the Klingon vessel in the ensuing firefight. The Salos unleashed an unending burst from her forward laser cannons, followed by quick bursts from an experimental rapid-fire laser turret that had been installed under her primary hull during her last layup. The Altair fired a series of three accelerator projectiles, all of which struck the Klingon's upper secondary hull dead-center. The Klingon's shields folded quickly, and then the Salos fired again with her turret, holing almost every square inch of the destroyer outer hull. The Klingon ship silently vented atmosphere and personnel out of its gaping wounds as it caught fire and noiselessly listed out of the combat zone.

The Rome, likewise, didn't fear any better than the Berlin. Although the three Klingon destroyers that the 28th Strike Squadron had engaged had all been destroyed, the toll that the Klingon's had exacted on the Starfleet forces hadn't gone unnoticed. The Rome had strayed too close to her target during her initial confrontation, and the frigate had been caught in a surprise suicide run by the Klingon commander. The enemy destroyer had engaged her at full ramming speed, which the Rome's shields were fully unprepared to handle. The captain of the Rome, Commander Henry Thatcher, had ordered his helmsman to take the Rome into a steep Z-dive in an attempt to avoid the forthcoming collision, but the Rome's eventual movement had come a moment too late. The Klingon destroyer's suicide run barely avoided smashing into the forward portion of the frigates saucer section, missing the Rome's translucent bride dome by a mere two meters. However, the enemy vessel's plunge quite efficiently smashed it into both of the Rome's up-swept warp pylons, severing them neatly from the frigate as the Klingon vessel continued its dive toward the Rome's stern.

Onboard the Discovery, Captain Steinbrecker could only watch helplessly as the warp nacelles floated effortlessly away from the Rome. Was there something disturbingly poetic in this, he asked himself. Is this how Honorius felt when his empire began to crumble around him? "Communications, try to raise the Rome," He said hurriedly, not averting his eyes from the forward screen.

"Communications with the Rome are down, sir." Pernesky replied.

Carlo's turned his chair a few more degrees to face the science officer. "Life signs?"

Lieutenant Commander Malabey scrutinized the readouts that the short-range sensors were giving him. "Sporadic, sir. I'm unable to calculate exact numbers. It could be due to radiation leakage from the crippled Klingon destroyer, or from the damaged plasma conduits from the Rome. However, I can tell you that main power, as well as auxiliary power, is down. Their life support is currently functioning on battery power only."

Carlo's looked to the deck and sighed heavily before returning his gaze to Malabey. "Then we'll need to take care of the Klingon vessels that we can and come back for the Rome's crew later. Communications officer, raise Commander Durbin on the Halk. Tell him that we are proceeding towards the Nostveg III and that we will require his immediate assistance."

Meanwhile, back in the engineering section of the crippled Klingon destroyer, Lieutenant Mike Durnell and his boarding party had just dispatched the last Klingon in a brief, but intense firefight.

"What now, Lieutenant?" Ensign Dennis Sullenger asked. His normally bright and chipper face was smudged with some grime he had picked up while he had taken cover in a dark corner of the engine room. His green eyes pierced through the darkness that overshadowed his complexion. "Do we disable her warp drive?"

Mike Durnell, his laser pistol held at the ready position at his side, looked around the space for their next avenue. Several of the wall mounted terminals had been blasted out during the weapons exchange with the Klingon crew. Mike only hoped that none of the damaged computers were absolutely critical to the drive systems of the ship. He sighed heavily as he surveyed the damage. "No, we need to take this ship as intact as possible. The impulse and warp systems need to remain operable. In fact, disabling them shouldn't even be considered as a last resort. I want to give this ship to Captain Navarra just as we found it."

Ensign Tessa Westerwood, who had been standing near one of the blown out computer terminals, her long brown hair flowing slowly in a soft breeze created by the ships atmospheric recycle near her head, looked to Sullenger and let out a soft chuckle. "Well, we've already ruined that, I'd say."

Mike smirked at her. "Well, let's just agree that this terminal was in this condition when we found it, Tess."

"I'd say we start with life support." Sullenger piped in from Durnell's left side.

Durnell looked around the room, then to one of the two doors that led out of the compartment. "Door number one or door number two?" He asked aloud.

Stephen Hagerman, a recent addition to the Sardar's crew, waved his tricorder slowly around the space. He hesitantly walked to the door that was on the far side of the room then, after a series of bleeps from his instrument, looked over to Darnell and inclined his head towards the hatch. "In there, Lieutenant."

Sullenger looked to the closed door and then apprehensively to Stephen "I suppose you know how to operate Klingon computer systems, too? I mean… I'd just hate for someone to accidently shut off the life support systems in this space—if you know what I mean."

Hagerman gingerly patted the tricorder at this side. "My knowledge of computer systems operation ends with this little thing."

Mike Durnell smiled and looked to the last member of the boarding party. The dark skinned Ensign Armando Palau was busily scanning the catwalk above the space, keeping a watchful eye out for any Klingon's who might enter the space from above. "Armando, front and center."

Palau took one final glance at the overhead and then walked to the Lieutenant's side. "Yes, sir?"

"You have a skill rating of fifty-two in computer operations, don't you?"

"Yes, sir. Federation computer systems. But I don't think—"

Durnell patted the young ensign on the shoulder. "I have full confidence in your ability to analyze these Klingon computers."

Palau looked as if he were about to protest. "But, sir. It's an entirely different kind of—"

"Are you saying that a bright young man such as yourself is too scared to figure out how to navigate the computer systems of an old piece of junk like this?" He emphasized his statement by waving his pistol around the room in a quick sweep.

Armando straightened, as if he were insulted by the Lieutenant's remarks. "I'll take that as an official challenge, sir. Let me at 'em" he said in his think Zulu accent.

Durnell looked to Sullenger. "There. You see? I wouldn't worry about it, Dennis," he said, then placed a firm hand on Sullenger's shoulder. He looked to his left at Ensign Palau. Dennis Durnell's gaze followed the Lieutenants until it, too, was fixed upon the young man. "Ensign Palau here is an expert at Klingon computers."

Palau stepped cautiously towards the door in front of him, with the rest of the landing party close on his heels. It opened with a loud grind, and the team found themselves in a room that was square, perhaps four meters on each side. The farthest wall, opposite of the door they team had just come through, held a small view screen. The left and right walls were lined with computer control terminals and various readout displays. In the center of the room was what looked like a command chair, the only piece of furniture in the entire room.

Palau finally holstered his laser pistol and activated the tricorder that had been slung across his right shoulder as the team slowly moved towards the computer controls on the right side of the room. He waved it one final time at a series of flashing lights that were placed just above a series of four silver toggle switches. "I think… yes… this should activate that viewscreen." he said as he closed his tricorder and slug it back to his hip. He held his fingers to the center two toggles then, saying a silent prayer as the rest of the team took a collective gasp, flipped the switches down.

Without warning, an extremely bright white floodlight on the overhead flashed from green to red several times, which was then followed by a loud buzzing alarm. The flashing lights stopped on red, bathing the team in an eerie reddish glow. Suddenly the entire room went completely dark.

"Oh, yes." Sullenger said flatly from somewhere behind Mike Durnell. "I'm not worried at all, Lieutenant."

The Sardar's wing mates—the London and the Trantis—had finally dispatched their target and linked up with the Discovery and the Halk. The four starships now sped towards Nostveg III at full impulse. Of the fifteen Klingon destroyers that had been in the sector prior to the engagement, only six of the vessels were now at normal operating efficiency—and three of those were still on the far side of the planetoid.

Two of the three Klingon vessels closest to the battle swung out of their orbit and attempted to intercept the four Federation vessels now approaching them. The third vessel, for some unknown reason, continued lazily in its orbit around Nostveg III for some time. The Altair and the Salos, having disabled an additional destroyer in route, were now well on their way to the far side of Nostveg III to intercept the remaining three stragglers.

The two Klingon destroyers sped towards the London and the Trantis. It was two-on-two, a fight to the death. One Swiftwind engaged the London while the other, performing a high speed axial rotation to starboard, slipped tightly between the two frigates and continued on her course to face off with the Sardar, now holding a stationary position just forward of the Klingon destroyer that was holding her boarding party.

Captain Navarra was already there, waiting for them.

Before the Federation cruiser was inside the weapons range of the D-16, the Sardar fired a spread of accelerator projectiles in the enemy destroyer's direction. All three of missed, but Captain Navarra got the distinct impression that the Klingon commander had got his message loud and clear as the enemy vessel sped past the Federation light cruiser. The Klingon ship again altered its course and tried to come along side of the Sardar in an attempted broadside run. As soon as the Sardar was in weapons range to the destroyer the Klingon began firing all starboard weapons at the port side of the ship. The Sardar, likewise, began firing her ventral lasers at the Klingon. The Klingon's weapons were, for the most part, ineffective until they reached a weak spot in the Sardar's shields just forward of the vessels shuttlecraft hangar. The clamshell doors of the hanger instantly bulged outward as internal detonations rocked the aft end of the ship, then the doors exploded outwards into a half dozen fragments and were ejected into space.

The Trantis, having received an emergency distress signal from the Sardar, performed a high energy turn and rushed back to the cruisers aid. As the Klingon destroyer was still gliding past the port side of the Sardar, the Trantis came in fast—all forward weapons blazing. She crossed over the top of the Klingon destroyer, first letting loose with her torpedoes and then with lasers. The D-16 continued on her course for another half-minute before all of her external lights blinked three times and then went dead.

Onboard the Sardar, the bridge crew nearly erupted in a unanimous roar of cheers.

"All power is down, sir," science officer Commander Jessica Dishman said excitedly to Captain Navarra. "Life support has failed."

"Very good, Commander," Captain 'Eagle' Navarra said in his usual calmness. "Ensign Goda, send my complements to Commander Vangordon on the Trantis."

The lithe Asian woman beamed with pride. "Aye, sir."

"And, once you're finished with that, please try to raise Lieutenant Durnell onboard our friend over there and find out what's keeping him."

"* * * * *"

With the battle over and the victory solidly going to the Federation forces, it was time for the 5th Battle Squadron to lick its wounds.

"That's excellent news, Captain," Komak was saying to the image of Captain Navarra on the viewscreen onboard the Altair. "I know Starfleet Intelligence will enjoy getting their hands on some more Klingon technology."

"My thoughts exactly, James. To be honest, I'm surprised we caught them with their proverbial pants down so easily. The final report just came in from the Discovery. They've managed to secure the last D-16 and are preparing to get underway to our location now."

Komak raised a thick eyebrow and cocked his head in confusion. "And they're towing the D-16 here?"

"Not at all, sir. They are actually brining her here under her own power."

Komak's confusion turned into bewilderment as a smile spread across James's face. "That would be just like Steinbrecker. He's the luckiest son of a bitch I know. Of the four Klingon ships that we can officially claim to have captured today, he's the only one that manages to get one that can still sail under her own power."

"Yes, sir. We've just received a communiqué from Starbase 14: They are dispatching a repair tender and tugs to pick up the Rome and the remains of the Berlin, not to mention the Klingon ships and personnel we've captured. I'd say it's been a pretty good day Captain, all things considered."

James regarded the images of the Rome and the Berlin in his mind, and his mood swung quickly from relief to sorrow. Half of their respective crews were either dead or dying. At last report, the shuttle bay of the Discovery had been converted into a make-shift hospital ward and was currently overflowing with what remained of the two crews.

"I agree," Komak replied heavily as he leaned back into his command chair, the thick leather crackling under the pressure. "…all things considered."


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Stardate 4102.20

February, 2253

"Are we ready to beam down the rest of the marine contingent to the planet's surface?"

"Aye, Captain. They're standing by in transporter rooms two and three for beam out."

Captain Neal Starcher was standing on the bridge of the Starfleet Marine fast transport U.S.S. Landover, failing to maintain his patience while waiting to fulfill his primary objective in the sector. The Landover, a Liberty-class transport, along with its escort of three Starfleet frigates, had been ordered to the planet Joia IV as precautionary measure against a possible Klingon incursion into this area of the quadrant. The Landover was tasked with beaming its complement of fifteen hundred marines—as well as their associated equipment—down to the surface in order to garrison the planet, should the Klingon's decide to attempt to take the planet by force. Starcher was now preparing to beam down the remainder of the marine forces, the majority of which had already been transported to the surface within the last two hours.

Starcher began to pace the upper deck of the bridge while he waited for the signal from the planet that would indicate that beaming operations were complete. This was the most vulnerable time for a starship. The Landover's shields were down and all available power was being channeled into the transporter systems and the impulse engines. This is taking too long, Captain Starcher thought to himself as he rubbed his hands together briskly, attempting to dry the sweat that began to form on his palms. Why couldn't Federation Research and Development work on making a more efficient transporter for this task? A standard transporter pad, even a larger cargo pad, is simply not efficient enough for all of this equipment to go down at one time. Someone needs to hurry up and build a better mousetrap.

Starcher then ran a hand through the thin spikes of his coffee color hair, his gray eyes scanning over the various terminals in the bridge, but not really looking at any of them. The Landover had served, in one capacity or another, entirely on the front lines since the onset of the war with the Klingon's. However, this particular mission had one unique difference that had separated itself from all of the others that Starcher had undertaken.

For the last four months, the Landover had been transporting goods and supplies to the starships, combat units, and starbases operating near the boundaries of Federation-Klingon space. The mission that Starcher now found himself on was the first time the Landover was tasked with garrisoning an entire planet al by itself, as well as being the first time that such a large force of Federation soldiers and equipment were onboard the Landover. Starcher's heart was filled with admiration and pride for the young men and women of the 4th Marine Regiment—or the 'Fighting 4th', as they were called—down on the surface of the delicate little world below.

Joia IV, four parsecs from Rebonet, was a striking green and blue Class-M planet in a system composed of mostly ice covered rocks. The systems star, a white main sequence type, bathed Joia with an almost pure white light, which was vastly unlike the yellow star of Starcher's home planet of Earth. When Starcher had traveled down to the planet on the one and only expedition he had made since the 16th Strike Squadron had arrived, he had the distinct impression that he was walking around an immense doctor's office. Every color was shifted slightly towards the blue spectrum, and everything seemed just a little off balance for his liking. He had beamed back up to the Landover a short time later with a large headache, which the ships surgeon had putdown as 'Lightwave Interactive Particle Syndrome', a title he had proudly coined himself and had bubbled over with when he realized that there was the prospect of publishing a paper on it in the Starfleet Medical Journal. Captain Starcher had only rolled his eyes at the good doctor's self-indulgence and, after taking a mild sedative, returned to the bridge to oversee the last of the transporter operations.

The Landover's escort for this mission, the 16th Strike Squadron, was made up of the Starfleet frigates Cygni Minor, Houston, and Deneb Clar. The commanding officer of the Houston, a headstrong man named Bourne, had ordered the 16th to take up tactical positions surrounding the Landover during the first phases of the operation. Starcher, however, still had his reservations about their mission, even with the three Loknar-class frigates surrounding his massively unimposing transport. The Landover had only two banks of light laser emitters, no accelerator cannons, and certainly no advance photon torpedo systems. Every ounce of space inside the ship was dedicated, in one way or another, to storage and transport. She was big, she was bulky, and she was slow. To put it succinctly, she was a prime target for capture or destruction.

Captain Starcher watched as the Deneb Clar came into view on the forward screen for a brief instant. As all Loknar-class frigates went, she was a tough little ship. Jutting from the rear of her saucer shaped primary hull were two rectangular portions that housed science labs, engineering spaces, fire control rooms, and other such spaces. From the rear of those areas two vertical pylons pointed aft and upwards at a fifty-degree angle. Atop those pylons were the tube-like the primary warp nacelles. The Loknar's were as graceful as they were deadly.

The Loknar's had been a saving grace for the Federation during the war, especially in the last several months. Because they were inexpensive to build and easy to maintain, the Starfleet shipyards could produce them in nearly a quarter of the time it took to build and test a single command cruiser. The frigates had endeared themselves to their crews for their strength and reliability, and to say that they were loved by their officer and enlisted personnel alike would have been a fairly accurate statement. Starcher was glad to have three of the little 'fork tailed devils' at his side.

As far as the Starfleet Intelligence reports had stated, the Joia system was well within a secured area of Federation space. As of Stardate 4101.26, there hadn't been any appreciable Klingon forces detected within a four parsec radius of the system—and Starcher was now beginning to wonder why. True, Joia was well situated within Federation boundaries and any Klingon attack on the sector would be madness, but there was also quite a bit the Klingon's could gain by taking the system. The Joia system was within striking distance of three additional Federation sectors, two of which contained Starfleet dry-docks and other ship maintenance facilities. These factors alone had necessitated the presence of a planet that could be set up as a defensive platform, and the planet that had been ultimately chosen was Joia IV. The 4th Marine Regiment was to be the first in a series of three regiments that would form a secure perimeter around what was to become the future Starbase 28. The Federation needed to maintain control of this system at any cost.

As the last of the enlisted personnel and equipment of the 4th was transported down to the surface, the Caitian communications officer's voice sung out across the bridge. "Captain Starcher, Major Medcalf is reporting that the last of the enlisted detachment has beamed down to the surface and that the area is now secure."

Neal felt as if a great weight had just lifted from his burdened shoulders. Main mission objective accomplished, old boy. Well done.

Lieutenant Nannie Greve, seeing the look of relief wash over her captain's facial appearance, continued her message from the surface. "Major Medcalf is now requesting that he and the rest of the officers of the 4th be allowed to transport back to the Landover to go over the final mission briefing with Colonel Larusso."

Starcher reflected on the message for a moment. He hadn't had much interaction with Major Medcalf, but Neal had found a great deal of comfort in the company of Colonel Richard Larusso. Larusso, born in the colony on Omegon, and had come from a military family that could trace its lineage all the way back to the Lappaxian Pergenium Conflict of Earth standard year 1421. During one of the many conversations that Starcher and Larusso had taken to having late into the hours in the officer's mess, Larusso had disclosed his penchant for hand-rolled cigars, to which Starcher had also professed a desire for. Larusso had mentioned that he had acquired a small supply of Andorian Brush Weeds—an immensely rare find this far away from the Andorian home world—and even something of a rarity on the normally ice covered Andorian homeworld itself. It was said that the brush weed produced the finest cigar in the entire alpha-quadrant, or at least what percentage of the quadrant had been explored up to this point. The tow men had agreed to share in the delicacy of Larusso's treat the moment the mission had been labeled a complete success.

Captain Starcher placed his hands behind his back and walked to within a few meters of the communications officer. "Very well, Lieutenant. Permission granted. Also, please advise the Colonel that his officers will be beamed aboard shortly. I believe you'll find him in the maintenance hangar." Starcher said, quickly pressing the button on his command chair that would link him to the transporter room. "Transporter chief, this is the Captain. Stand bye to beam the officers of the 4th regiment back to the ship. Their coordinates should be arriving momentarily."

"Aye, sir. Standing bye." The seemingly young man answered.

"* * * * *"

Commander Lawrence Bourne grabbed for the cool metallic handrail and pulled himself from the swimming pool on the recreation deck of the U.S.S. Houston. A moment later he was joined by his first officer, Lieutenant Commander Sutcliffe. Sutcliff, dripping wet, put his hands to his knees as he bent forward and gasped for air.

"I think that's your best lap yet, Kent." Bourne said as if he had just come in from a fresh spring walk, and then offered his old friend a towel.

"Thanks, sir." Kent replied through gasps of air. "Maybe one of these days I'll actually beat you for once."

Bourne smiled playfully. "Oh, come now, Kent. I said you were getting better—not that you were becoming great."

The two officers looked to one another, and after a short silence, they both broke out in a roar of laughter.

"Kent, old boy, you've been trying your damndest to beat me since we were at the Academy together."

Sutcliffe finally managed to haul himself completely upright and stuffed one end of his towel into his ear and wiggled it back and forth briskly. "Yeah, and someday I will."

Commander Bourne's expression held serious doubt. "I'm not holding my breath, old buddy."

"That's good. You know, I wouldn't want to be responsible for the Captain passing out when something important was about to happen." Kent retorted, smiling broadly.

"Now, you wouldn't be referring to anything in particular would you, Lieutenant Commander?"

Sutcliff shrugged. "If by 'particular' you think I'm referring to that little bar on New Aberdeen, then I would say 'yes, sir. I am.'"

Bourne's expression changed to exasperation as his arms fell to his sides. "Come on, Kent. I can't believe you're never going to let me live that one down."

Kent was unmoved by his captain's statement as he completed drying himself off.

"Besides," Bourne continued innocently as he dried his long legs. "It was a totally honest mistake, anyways."

"Mistake?" Sutcliff almost threw his towel to the deck in frustration. "Mistake my a—"

The sound of the recreation deck intercom cut off the slowly escalating banter between the two officers. "Captain Bourne, please respond."

Bourne, now dry, wrapped himself in his towel and walked away from his first officer and towards the wall mounted speaker a few meters away.

"Bourne here. What is it, Tom?"

The voice of the ensign at the communications console was laced with trepidation. "Sir, sensors are picking up Klingon vessels entering the system."

"Tom, patch me over to Lieutenant Wexler."

"I'm already here, sir." The officer said as she stepped from her console and walked to the communications station.

"Do you have a verified course and distance, Lieutenant?"

"Partially, sir. The Klingon's are at an extreme range, but headed right for this position at full impulse. Time to intercept is fifteen minutes, sir."

Damn. This is not what I was looking forward too when I woke up this morning. I guess Intelligence got this one right. Chalk one up for them. "Commander Sutcliffe and I will be up shortly. Bourne out."

Ten minutes later, after both of the men had cleaned and changed back into their gold duty uniforms, Commander Bourne was confidently seated on the bridge while Sutcliffe, although totally dry from their race in the ships pool, absently tried to get some lingering water out of his ear while he was seated at the navigators console.

"Lieutenant Wexler, what are the current sensor readings? The Klingon's should be here any minute."

Beth's face moved into the sensor readout display. "Long-range sensors are still reading two D-16 Swiftwind destroyers. But, sir?

"What is it, Beth?" He asked as he turned to face his science officer.

The tone of Wexler's voice betrayed her confusion. "Sir, it looks as if they've just changed course. Instead of an intercept vector, they're now on a slightly altered course that will take them close—but not close enough—for an attack run against the planet. I don't get it, sir? Why come so close and then veer off?"

Lawrence smiled at Beth. "Maybe they had more brains than brawn?"

"Sir?" She still looked confused.

"They may just be a scouting group, Lieutenant. They could be scanning the system and returning that information to their fleet."

Kent turned to his commander. "Then we probably shouldn't let them do any reporting."

"Kent, I think we can afford to head them off at the pass, wouldn't you say?"

Sutcliffe considered the implications of his captain's suggestion. Typically, Starfleet commanders were ordered not to overtly attack any vessel, even enemy ones, when they were not themselves being attacked. Starfleet rules of combat stated that such vessel commanders must, at all times, safeguard the men, women, and equipment under their care, and that any flagrant misuse of those responsibilities would be meet with the gravest of consequences. Of course, the decision to employ such engagements—like the one Bourne was now contemplating—were often left up to the captain of the vessel, judged on a case-by-case basis, and often offered a wide amount of legal breathing room.

After he considered this, Kent finally spoke up confidently. "I agree, sir," Then he inclined his head toward the image on the forward viewer. "Do you think the Landover will be alright by herself? I mean… maybe we should just take one of the other frigates along with us. I'm not too keen on the idea of leaving her here alone."

Bourne only smirked at Sutcliff. "We're only going to be gone for a few minutes, Kent. And the Klingon's are moving away from this position, yes?" He said the latter as he turned to face Beth. She nodded her affirmation at him, her slightly curly brown hair bouncing under the movement. Lawrence returned his eyes to Ken. "Not to mention the fact that three frigates easily outclass two piece of junk Klingon destroyers."

Then why do I have such a bad feeling about this? Sutcliff was still unconvinced. "All the more reason to leave one ship behind, sir. Maybe the Deneb Clar? She has the least experienced captain out of us all."

"Nonsense, Lieutenant Commander Sutcliff. Her captain's inexperience is all the more reason she should join us in the chase."

Sutcliffe mulled resigned himself to his captain's wishes. He resigned himself to the fact that this argument, like the one down in the ships pool, was lost to his commander. "I suppose your right, sir."

"Of course I'm right. That's why I'm the captain." Bourne said, giving his best look of mock seriousness. "Helmsman, lay in a course to intercept the Klingon's on their new vector. Tom? Hail the Landover and advise them that we are investigating the Klingon ships entering the system and that the 16th Strike Squadron will return shortly."

"* * * * *"

No sooner had the 16th Strike Squadron departed the system when suddenly—without any warning—the Landover's sensors began informing her crew that something was amiss. Captain Starcher rushed to the bridge within minutes of receiving the summons he had received while relaxing in his cabin.

"Elsa, what do you have?"

Elsa Laatsch, the tall, dark haired Cygnian woman peered her bright yellow eyes into the library computer sensor hood. "Sir, we have multiple Klingon contacts on both long-range and short-range scanners."

Starcher was suddenly gripped with terror. "Are you sure you're not picking up the enemy destroyers that our frigates are investigating?"

Still looking into the sensor computer, she shook her head briskly. "Negative, sir. These are definitely new contacts."

Neal licked his lips as his moth went dry. "Can you positively identify the vessel types?"

Her long, brown fingers caressed the sensor adjustment controls with the utmost haste. "The vessels that the long-range sensors are picking up have been identified as troop transports. Exact composition is estimated at five vessels."

Captain Starcher's palms began to sweat once more. Five troop transports would hold a combined total of some eight or nine-thousand troops and supplies. He tried desperately to get the next words out his mouth without choking on them. "And the vessels that are on short-range sensors?"

Elsa turned her head quickly to the captain. "Six heavy cruisers; D-7 type." She said despairingly.

Starcher instantly knew he had little time to waste. "Communications officer, put out a general distress call to any Federation starships in the area, and notify Commander Bourne to break off his pursuit and return here immediately! Tell him it's a direct order. Then patch me into the Marines down on the surface!" He hit the control on his armrest that would open the ship wide intercom. "Attention, all hands. Klingon's have entered the system. We are raising shields and arming weapons. All hands to battle stations!"

"Captain, I have the Marine camp on the surface for you." Elsa said a moment later.

Starcher leaned towards the speaker on his chair. "This is Captain Starcher. Who am I addressing?"

"This is Master Sergeant Wheeler, sir." The sound of a young man's voice carried the words.

"Are you the senior officer present, Master Sergeant?" Starcher asked, hoping that there was at least one commissioned officer on the whole of Joia IV.

After a moment the Master Sergeant came back online. "Yes, sir. I am. All of the line officers beamed aboard the Landover ten minutes ago."

Damn, that's right. Starcher tried to clear his throat. "Master Sergeant, we've located a Klingon assault force in the system. They have a half-dozen landing ships and enough cruisers in their arsenal to obliterate the entire Marine camp in seconds. We cannot beam you back to the ship at this time."

"Understood, sir. What are your orders?"

What, indeed, Starcher thought. What could I possibly tell him to do? I'm not qualified to order ground forces in to action.

"Stand bye, Sergeant:"

"Captain Starcher!" Laatsch called form the science station. "The Klingon cruisers have increased speed. They are entering weapons range!"

Starcher yelled into the armrest speaker. "Wheeler, just get your men out of there! Break up, split apart, divide and conquer." Neil kept throwing out analogies, hoping that the grunts on the surface would comprehend his meaning.

"* * * * *"

On the surface of Joia IV, Wheeler looked to several of his marine comrades who had gathered around him as he held his communicator. They could hear the shouts of the bridge officers onboard the Landover through the communicator's speaker. Some of the voices were clear and crisp while others were obscure and muffled. Wheeler then heard the sound of an explosion, followed by the captain shouting an indistinguishable order, which itself was followed by yet another more powerful explosion that silenced the communications channel.

Gunnery Sergeant Redington, tall and bulky, emerged from the crowd of marines that had surrounded Wheeler. "What's happening, Master Sergeant?"

Wheeler attempted to open another communications channel to the Landover and—failing that—he closed the communicator and placed it back in his utility pocket. "Looks like the Landover got into some trouble," He began slowly. "I don't think she made it."

Redington nodded his head slowly. "Klingons?"

Wheeler nodded slowly. "I'd say so."

"And what about the frigates? Did the bastards get them, too?"

Wheeler shrugged his shoulders apprehensively. "I didn't get that information from Captain Starcher, but my gut feeling is that they were either destroyed or incapacitated."

"So… we're on our own down here?" Redington asked.

Wheeler pulled his sidearm out of its holster and, twisting the barrel of the pistol from stun to disintegrate, placed it back in its holster. "We've been in situations like this before, Sergeant."

Redington's face turned sour. "I'd have to disagree with you, Master Sergeant. We've got no support… no back-up... and no damn officers to lead us."

"All true." Wheeler acknowledged to his second in command.

Redington threw his hands up in frustration. "Well, what are we going to do about it?"

"For one thing, I am assuming tactical command of the 4th as of this moment."

"Based on what authority, Wheeler?" Redington spat angrily.

"The last communication we received from the Landover, for starters. These marines will vouch for the change of command orders from Starcher." Wheeler said, motioning to the core group of grunts that had initially surrounded him during his communication with the ill-fated starship. "Secondly, I'm the ranking non-commissioned officer present. Those two facts give me the authority, Sergeant."

Redington looked to the various marines, hoping for a challenge from any other marines present. None came. "So… what are your orders, sir?" There was more than a hint of disdain in his voice.

"Simple. I don't plan on going out the same way the 7th did on Nozseca."

Redington slipped his hands defiantly into his pockets, his dark green eyes narrowing. "And that means what, exactly?"

"We'll need to split up and cover as much ground as possible. The 7th was too centralized on Nozseca; it was too easy to pick off from high orbit. We need to thin out our command as much as possible and make it difficult for the Klingon's to track us down."

"And how will we maintain communications with everyone if we're spread out across the entire surface. Our communicators are only line of site devices, so there won't be any way to make a coordinated attack against those Klingon's." Redington said, jerking his head towards the sky.

"I was thinking of something a little less organized, but equally as effective as a combined assault. In fact, it might be even more effective."

Another marine, Sergeant Plattner, came forward. "You're talking about guerilla warfare?"

"Exactly, Sergeant Plattner." Wheeler acknowledged with a boyish smile.

Plattner's freckled face nodded slowly in agreement. "We'll have to keep communications to a minimum, then."

"Agreed. Each squad will be given a pre-designated coded frequency for their communicators. This will allow for limited, but verifiable, communications between friendly units that may be in close proximity to one another. All other long distance communications will cease immediately. They are far too easy for the orbiting Klingon vessels to detect and track."

"And what about all of the equipment?" Redington asked angrily, one had held aloft in a fist and the other waving in the direction of the makeshift camp the marines had set up.

"We'll need to dismantle the camp immediately. That is out number-one priority right now. Lance Corporal Levonson?" Wheeler called into the crowd.

The fair skinned Corporal from the planet Altair strode forward and saluted Wheeler with practiced ease. "Yes, sir?"

"Corporal, assign a detail to dismantle everything in the camp."

"Yes, sir." Levonson replied without question, pointing a finger at a handful of men and then rushing to his task.

"Sergeant Kubat?" Wheel said, addressing the extremely bulky Andorian to his right.

"Yes, sir?" Kubat asked and saluted, his antennas twitching slightly with the gesture.

"Sergeant, muster the 2nd platoon and have them divide every supply, every weapon, everything that is mobile into five groups."

"Five?" Redington asked in shocked disbelief.

Wheeler kept his gaze locked on Kubat. "You heard the order, Sergeant. Five."

"That will leave everyone a little thin, sir." Plattner added, voicing a concern that everyone was probably thinking.

"I understand, Sergeant. In any case, I need you to locate Sergeants' Santiago and Voris. Have them report to me immediately."

"Yes, sir." Plattner saluted and turned to his task.

Wheeler turned to face Redington. "And as for you, Gunnery Sergeant Redington. I need to speak with you… alone… now."

"* * * * *"

"Alright, Redington. I'm not going to argue with you about this anymore. Frankly, it's a waste of time that we don't have right now. There are almost two-thousand marines out there waiting for my orders," Wheeler said, motioning to the open doorway in the command room with a nod of his head. "What am I supposed to tell them? Am I supposed to tell them 'sorry, every commissioned officer in this unit has been killed and, oh, by the way, we have no reinforcements coming'? What the hell would that do for morale?"

Redington sat defiantly on the corner of the commander's desk, staring eye to eye with Wheeler. "At least it would show that you were man enough to be honest with them. Most of those kids out there are fresh out of training, and not too far removed from the farms they grew up on. They need honesty—now more than ever!"

There was a knock at the door, and Wheeler was silently thankful for it. Any more of this bickering and he would have to knock Redington right on his bottom, regulations be damned. "Yes," Wheeler asked. "What is it?"

It was Sergeant Plattner with Staff Sergeant Santiago and Sergeant Voris in tow. "The men you requested, sir," Plattner said with another salute. He turned quickly to leave, but Wheeler caught him in a split second before he left the room.

"Not too fast, Plattner. I need you here, as well."

"Yes, sir?"

Wheeler began addressing his senior staff. "Gentleman, as you know, we don't have a lot of time. The Klingon's will be all over this camp like flies on sugar in the next few hours. Preliminary scans of all orbiting starships indicate a strong offensive presence, but very little in the way of troop carriers."

"That's good, right?" Voris asked in his thick South American accent. "What I mean, sir, is that proves that the Klingon's don't have a significant landing force up there, correct?"

"So far, that's correct. It also doesn't mean, however, that they aren't expecting one to arrive here. The last communication from the Landover stated that some transports were spotted on their long-range sensors. They could be here in less than three hours, or they could be up there right now. We just don't know. We might be able to handle a few thousand troops one-on-one, but if the Klingon's up the odds, we will be in for one hell of a fight."

"More like a slaughter." Redington scowled, folding his arms across his chest.

"That's the spirit, Gunny!" Santiago said, taking Redington's comment to be a positive one.

Redington backhanded Santiago's shoulder. "No, fool. I mean it'll be our slaughter!"

"Everyone, please," Wheeler said, holding his hands in the air to try to bring the meeting back into order. "We need to split up our forces and get out of this zone as fast as possible. All of the mobile transports and assault craft are prepped and ready. Once we've divided all of the weapons and supplies into separate battalions, those supplies can then be separated into each of your squads as you see fit."

Wheeler looked to each of the men present, making sure that each was listening intently. "Gunnery Sergeant Redington, you will take command of 1st Battalion. Staff Sergeant Santiago, you will take 2nd Battalion. I'll take the 3rd. The 4th Battalion will be split into two companies, Alpha and Bravo. Plattner, you will take Alpha Company, and Voris will take Bravo. Is all of that understood?" Wheeler asked, looking to each of the men's faces.

"Yes, sir." The chorus of replies came from the five men.

"Good. Everyone get their supplies and head out on a different vector. I want the camp cleared out by 0930. The 3rd Battalion will be heading north. Each of you all can decide for yourselves which directions to take from here, just don't follow us. Try to maintain contact with each other, but remember that the priority here is to inflict as much damage as we can. Good luck people. Dismissed."


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Stardate 4103.15

March, 2253

Incoming subspace communication…

FROM: The Office of the Commanding Officer, Starfleet Public Relations, Commodore Joselyn Czernovski.

TO: All Commanding Officers, Galaxy Exploration Command.

VIA: (1) The Office of the Commanding Officer, Starfleet Command, Fleet Admiral John Murdock, San Francisco, Earth.

(2) The Office of the Commanding Officer, Starfleet Intelligence, Admiral Kory Woodrolf, San Francisco, Earth.

SUBJ: STATE OF AFFAIRS BETWEEN THE FEDERATION AND THE KLINGON EMPIRE

1. On Stardate 4102.27 the Federation Sawyer-class scout vessels were officially removed from the list of active vessels serving with Starfleet Command. There are a great many factors that contributed to the vessels being stricken from Starfleet, with the prevalent ones being (1) A lack of overall shielding and defensive capabilities and (2) A low survivability in forward deployed areas, of which scout vessels are sorely needed at this time. Starfleet Command cannot, in good conscience, guarantee the safety of personnel onboard these vessels, should they stray too far from a protective screen of more powerful starships. The Sawyer, namesake for her class, was commissioned on Stardate 3201.05 and served proudly with both the Galaxy Exploration arm of Starfleet Command as well as Military Operations Command. The ex-Sawyer-class starships will be held in reserve basins throughout Federation space, well away from the front lines of combat, should the need arise to utilize the hulls for other, more cost effective purposes. A variant of the Nelson-class scout will now perform these roles.

2. On Stardate 4103.01 Starfleet Marine regiments, composed of the 2nd, 8th, and 13th battalions, were rushed to the planet Sinbad IV to ward off a pending attack by Klingon ground forces intent on seizing that system. As the Klingon's transport escorts entered the system, they were immediately targeted by a fast moving squadron of Starfleet frigates. Once the Klingon transports had unloaded their payload of combat personnel to the planet's surface, the now empty vessels were engaged by the frigates, which were completely successful in driving the Klingon convoy from the system. With the Klingon ground troops now wholly unsupported from orbiting enemy starships, the land based Starfleet Marines—with assistance of the 3rd Strike Squadron, led by the frigate U.S.S. Helios—killed, wounded, or captured a total of thirty-thousand skilled Klingon ground troops, including one crack Klingon Imperial Guard battalion, and almost all of their support equipment and weapons.

3. As of Stardate 4103.01, Starfleet Intelligence has reported a dramatic decrease in the number of civilian and merchant vessels lost near contested Federation space. This experiential decrease is due to several factors, namely the overall effectiveness of the Zone of Transport Escort, the diligence of commanding officer of forward deployed Federation starships, and the support of the civilian and merchant crews operating in conjunction with the before mentioned Federation entities. Be advised that this new data in no way countermands any pervious restrictions made to civilian or merchant vessels, and any future reports of reductions in losses will in no way reduce Starfleet's enforcement of any and all prior made policies regarding the Zone of Transport Escort.

4. On Stardate 4103.06, the Constitution-class heavy cruiser U.S.S. Constellation set a Federation speed record, having achieved a sustained emergency velocity of warp factor eight point-seven while attempting to engage a Klingon heavy cruiser that had strayed to within five parsecs of Starbase 10, near the area of space known as The Triangle. Captain Ran Armstrong and his crew should be commended for their lone destruction of this enemy vessel, since the Constellation's escorts of frigates and destroyers were quickly outpaced by the high speeds achieved by the heavy cruiser. Be advised that commanding officers should not take it upon themselves to attempt such high speed maneuvers at any time, unless such maneuvers have been sanctioned by the Starfleet Board of Engineers, and that such movements will be well within the safety limits of the vessels for which those commanding officer's have been charged with being responsible for.

5. On Stardate 4008.10, the Federation starship U.S.S. Hera—operating alone just outside of the Delta star system—confirmed a positive long-range sensor scan of a Romulan Graceful Flyer-class scout vessel in the Federation-Romulan neutral zone. After several months of tracking the Romulan vessel, the Hera reported that at no time did the Romulan ship attempt to enter Federation held space or make any overtly hostile actions against the Hera herself. The Graceful Flyer was consistently tracked until it reentered Romulan two parsecs from the rim of The Triangle. As of Stardate 4103.01, there is no appreciable evidence of further Romulan incursions into the neutral zone or any other overt Romulan intrusions into Federation space itself.

"* * * * *"

Stardate 4104.04

April, 2253

"Success, my lord!" the Klingon officer's voice resounded over the ships intercom. The excitement in his voice was unmistakable. Hopefully this was just the news that Squadron Captain Kongar had been waiting for. The I.K.S Du'Toth, a slightly modified version of the standard Klingon D-16 destroyer, was stationed with the rest of a squadron consisting of similar vessels just inside the Delgon system, itself nearly thirteen parsecs away from their home territory and deep into Federation held space.

On the bridge of the Du'Toth, the tall and extremely muscular Captain Kongar stood with arms folded as he looked out into the void of space at the area that had been designated by the Earthers as the Delgon Expanse. Kongar cared little for names, and when a subordinate hastily asked if the area should be renamed after Kongar himself, the captain simply smiled, thought about it for a moment, then sent the offending officer staggering across the bridge with a lighting fast backhand to the face. "If I were to bestow honors upon myself," He spat at the officer. "Then those honors would mean nothing." Regaining his composure, he signaled to his communications officer with a wave of his hand, indicating that he wished to speak to the chief engineer. After an audible bleep the channel was open and Captain Kongar began to speak. "Lieutenant Commander Golrek, this is the Captain. I hope, for your own sake, that this is not another supposed success that will only lead to further failure on your part."

"No, sir. The other attempts were unsuccessful because—" Golrek started, but was cut off by Kongar.

"I tire of your excuses as much as I tire of your bungling of this mission! The Imperial Admiralty has positioned this squadron in a place of the utmost importance to the Empires efforts in this sector, and it is a responsibility that I hold very dear to me. We are here for the glory of the Empire, not to demonstrate how completely ineffectual our crews can be!"

There was a pause on the other end of the communication channel, and Kongar secretly hoped that as Golrek chose his next words, they would be chosen wisely. "I hear and I obey, my lord."

Captain Kongar took in a heavy breath and let it out slowly. "Then obey me! What news do you have to report?"

"Sir, the new weapons system is online and functioning at ninety-five percent."

"Ninety-five percent? Why not one-hundred percent? Is that due to your incompetence as well?"

"No, sir," Golrek cried helplessly into the intercom. "The engines themselves are our biggest hindrance. We cannot maintain full battle readiness and also supply the necessary energy to the new weapons system simultaneously."

"But, they new mine laying system is online and ready for deployment?" Kongar sneered impatiently.

"Yes, my lord. The system is… is ready to be deployed. All safety precautions have been taken. There will be no further mishaps."

Kongar growled at the intercom speaker and then abruptly closed the channel. Not three days ago, Golrek had also reported that the system was online and functioning within specifications. However, once the I.K.S. K'Engka, the direct sister ship to the Du'Toth in the squadron, had begun to deploy the mines in a test pattern, one of the first devices to be deployed suddenly exploded prematurely. The shock wave from the blast detonated the mine that was adjacent to it, and so on, all the way back to the modified shuttle bay on the K'Engka. The K'Engka, when hit with the shockwave from the nearest exploding mine, had its entire payload of experimental weapons self-destruct, incinerating the ship completely. There were now only eight ships left from the initial nine that had departed the Imperial Starbase at Stogar nearly six months ago for this mission. Kongar was not about to repeat this failure. The Admiralty would surely have his command—if not his head—served to them for dinner if he were to loose any more men or materials on this highly classified mission.

The achievement of that mission, however, was going to be for more difficult than the strategists in the Klingon High Council had originally planned. While the development of the new gravetic mines had been done under the strictest of security classifications—not to mention one of the largest disinformation networks ever established in the Empire's history—the technology and its associated science were still frighteningly new to the Klingons, and the scientific fields were far from being some of the Klingon's strongest disciplines.

Once the weapon itself had been developed, the choice of starships that could have deployed it effectively had been limited to the D-16 alone. The Swiftwind's were produced in the greatest numbers of any Klingon design, so a selection of them could be easily made from the available hulls for the necessary modification required for the new mine laying equipment. The same could not be said for the D-7 or the D-9 cruisers. Their firepower and speed were sorely needed during the initial push to gain a foothold into Federation territory. In the end, the High Council had slated nine vessels to undergo the conversion to the new specifications laid down by the research arm of the Imperial navy.

The system had never been tested—at least to battle ready effectiveness—before Captain Kongar and his newly modified ships left the defensive shipyards at Stogar. There had been a rush to train new personnel in the operation of the largely unproven weapon, itself now taking the place of the aft firing photon torpedo launcher on the destroyer. Captain Kongar distrusted new officers in general, and for him to see so many new faces on the bridge—his bridge—left a sour taste in his mouth. Also, knowing that the High Council had positioned some of these men here to act as official observers for the new weapon system, made Kongar all the more uncomfortable.

Kongar had a long history of doing the Council's bidding when it was asked of him—when it was advantageous for him to do so. Full, unquestioned allegiance to the Council was nearly impossible to find. Each commander gave his allegiance to whomever it served his career best to assist at any given time. In fact, a commander could quickly move from one side of a conflict to the other in the course of an hour… or within the span of just a few minutes. It had happened in the past more times than Kongar cared to remember. Currently, the High Council had his favor, and he had found favor in their eyes. His ship was his to do with as he pleased, and it pleased him very much to delve out pain to the Earthers and their weak conglomerate of fools, even if there was a lack of trust between some of the officers on his own bridge. A small price to pay for glory.

Fortunately there was still Lieutenant Commander Golrek, who had served faithfully—albeit rather plainly—with Captain Kongar for the last three years as chief engineer. It was good to have someone you could take your frustrations out on, and Captain Kongar had some sense of security knowing that Golrek wouldn't run back to the Council crying like a baby because his hand—or his face, for that matter—had just gotten slapped. Golrek, although no one would ever hear Captain Kongar say the words aloud, was admired by his captain for his technical prowess under stressful situations. Kongar could always count on Golrek to do the impossible when the situation had called for it. At least, that was until the events had unfolded that led to the destruction of the K'Engka.

Kongar, remembering with indifference that the observers from the High Council were watching intently, reestablished the intercom channel to the engineering section. "This had better work, Commander, or the part of your anatomy that you hold most precious will adorn my wall—and I do not mean that ugly thing that sits atop your shoulders!"

There was a brief silence on the other end of the channel. "We are ready to begin laying down a preliminary pattern, sir. If all goes well, the remaining ships will be able to finish laying out the entire field in less than three hours."

Kongar leaned close to the intercom speaker, his thick leathery uniform squeaking under the pressure of his slow movements. "Very well, Commander Golrek. Inform the Su'Helik to begin mine laying operations while we observe from a distance. Let us hope that everything does indeed go well. In the meantime, I would suggest you make peace with Kahless, Golrek. If anything fails this time… anything at all, you will be standing before him before you can blink. Bridge out!"

"* * * * *"

On the bridge of the Achernar-class command cruiser U.S.S. Galina, Captain Herbert Solow's green eyes surveyed the small task force that was under his direct command. Solow felt a profound sense of admiration for his new task. He had only been promoted to captain a month earlier, after what Starfleet Command was calling "An exceptional show of bravery on the part of the first officer of the U.S.S. Kaga during a crisis situation". In truth, Solow rarely required accolades or awards. He had expressed—during the ensuing board of inquiry that had followed the incident involving the Kaga's former captain—that he had simply done his duty as any other Starfleet officer would have done in a similar situation. The brass at Starfleet Command, however, had felt otherwise. They had expressed that, due to Solow's quick thinking and outstanding leadership, he alone was able to assume command and circumvent the destruction of not only his ship, but also those of the two additional Starfleet destroyers in the 98th Strike Squadron.

The former captain of the Kaga, Scott Benak, had been in engineering when the sneak attack by the Klingon's had transpired. The Klingon's had neatly surrounded the squadron in what the admiral's on the ensuing board of inquiry had cited as "…a flagrant disregard on Captain Benak's part to adequately safeguard the lives of Federation personnel and property under his command". Solow knew, in his heart, that there wasn't much the captain could have done differently in the situation. True, Benak could have performed a more in depth sensor scan of the area, or he could have sent one of the destroyers to scout ahead of the rest of the squadron, but each time Solow played out the chain of events that would have followed each of those scenarios, the results were always the same: the destruction of at least one, if not all of the Starfleet vessels in the group. Had Captain Benak survived the encounter, he would no doubt have voiced these concerns to the board as well.

Unfortunately, Captain Benak was killed—as was the Kaga's chief engineer—when the starboard power conduit ruptured during the battle, filling the entire engineering space of the ship with a lethal dose of gamma radiation. This event had lead Solow, a junior commander, to take overall command of the squadron. After successfully luring the attacking enemy forces into a nearby nebula, he and his starships were able to extricate themselves from the sector without suffering any further damage. After the battle, Starfleet was quick to offer Solow a field promotion to captain and give him overall responsibility for this new squadron of all heavy cruisers, the 85th Strike Squadron. The Kaga was repaired and remanded at Starbase 10, while Captain Herbert Solow was given command of the Achernar-class U.S.S. Galina—a twelve month old cruiser—fresh into the fleet after successfully completing her trial runs at Utopia Planetia. She wasn't the first ship that Solow had commanded, but after having served as the master of a frigate and a destroyer, Solow had assumed it would've taken years as the first officer of a cruiser before he was given one of his own. Yet—due to situations beyond his control—it had only taken six months.

On the forward view screen of the Galina, Solow could see the freshly painted hull of the Kaga, as well as the heavy cruiser Phardos, both hanging motionless ahead of his ship. A total of ten Achernar cruisers made up the 47th Strike Squadron. They were all strikingly similar to the Constitution-class heavy cruisers, which the Achernar's were considered a sub-class variant. Unlike the Constitutions, however, the Achernar's had both upper and lower laser banks, as well as supplemental accelerator cannons augmenting the photon torpedo launcher. The Achernar's were definitely the more heavily armed version of this widely used hull design. Another striking difference was the addition of multiple tiers of command and control spaces that were built inside the vessels. Used by fleet commanders, these spaces provided a complete tactile control and analysis platform that could take into account the nuances of every ship assigned to a Battle Squadron, then formulate strategies and disseminate them to the group nearly simultaneously. Thus, the Achernar's deserved every bit of their designation as Command Cruisers, and Solow was brimming with pride at having so many of them present under his control.

Herbert swiveled in his command chair and looked to his science officer, Lieutenant Commander K'Tillison. She was tall, well built, and not entirely unattractive by Caitian standards. The soft chocolate colored fur, sprinkled with random streaks of cream and white that covered her feline face, was arranged into a well groomed mane near the top of her head. At almost two meters, K'Tillison was considered somewhat shorter than most Caitian's, but that hadn't seemed to stop the stares at her wasp-waisted figure as she sauntered through the ships corridors. It was the way of her cat-like species, and Solow assumed that K'Tillison had no idea about the effect she was having on his crew, both male and female alike. He rose from his chair and stepped to her side.

"Commander K'Tillison?" he asked softly. She slowly turned her head from the science scanner and looked to her captain.

"Yes, sir?" She purred in his direction.

"Commander," he began. "I still haven't had a chance to meet everyone in the various departments since I check onboard, let alone go over all of the personnel files for the crew. Who would you say is your most competent officer in the science department?"

K'Tillison looked away from the captain's gaze for a moment while recalling all of the faces in her department, purring to herself absently as each face crossed over her mind. "That would be Lieutenant Spock, sir."

Solow's expression turned sour. "Spock? What kind of a person names their son Spock?"

K'Tillison's own expression took on a look of amusement. "I would say the Vulcan kind, sir."

Solow's dark eyes rolled at the mention of the Vulcan species. "Oh, brother. We have one of those genius Vulcan's onboard, don't we?"

The Caitian science officer let out a soft laugh, and then her mellow voice flowed out from behind her whiskered cheeks. "Yes, sir. In fact, we have several."

The captain shot her a dubious sideways glance. "Define the word 'several'."

"We have approximately thirty-two Vulcan's onboard, Captain. Of those, thirty-one of them are in the science department."

"Thirty-one, aye? What happened to number thirty-two?"

"Ensign Stelendos is in the engineering department."

"Perfect." Solow said, exhaling slowly, and rubbing his face with his hands.

"Is that a problem, sir? I'm sure we can transfer Ensign Stelendos if—"

"No, no," he removed his hands from his face and gave a slight wave in her direction. "It's just that… well… I've found that Vulcan's have no sense of Menschkiet, that's all."

K'Tillison's expression changed to one of utter confusion. "No sense of… what, sir?"

"Menschkiet." Solow said, looking up to her. He saw that her look of confusion was unchanged and knew instantly he would have to go further in his explanation. "You know… it's something between men... it's about honor, and character…loyalty, camaraderie, and—" He stopped talking, seeing that his explanation was having no effect on the feline Commander. In fact, it seemed to make even more bewildered. "It's untranslatable. That's why it's Yiddish."

"Yiddish, sir?" The d sound came across as a soft purr. "I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with that species."

Herbert smiled and chuckled kindly. "It's not a species, my dear Commander. It's a language."

"Sir," She began in all seriousness. "Lieutenant Cavitt is the communications officer. He is the one most familiar with languages, not I."

Solow's chuckled turned into a short burst of full laughter, but it quickly died down once he had noticed that K'Tillison's scowl had not faded in the slightest. "Firstly, Commander, Yiddish is one of the languages of the Jewish people of Earth. Secondly, if you are ever going to get anywhere with your Jewish Captain, you're going to have to learn some of the nuances of his language."

Her scowl faded somewhat to be replaced by a smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. "That seems a little… out of regulation, sir."

"Trust me. It's kosher."

"It's what?"

"Forget it." He said, smiling back and waving his hand dismissively. "How about you get that Mr. Spork up to the bridge for me."

Now it was K'Tillison's turn to laugh. "It's Spock, sir. Lieutenant Spock." She replied quietly, trying no to embarrass her captain any further.

"It is? Oh… What did I say?"

"You said Spork, sir." She whispered softly, though she had put her fur coated hand to her mouth in an attempt to stifle her mirth, so it was difficult for Herbert to discern.

Captain Solow straightened at her side as he attempted to compose his best command posture, though he still wore a faint smile on his face. "Well, whatever his name is, get him up on here on the double, Lieutenant Commander."

"* * * * *"

Within minutes the turbolift doors to the bridge opened and Lieutenant Spock strode onto the command deck to stand just behind Captain Solow.

"You wished to see me, sir." Spock said. His voice was calm, its pitch low and sure.

Solow turned in his chair to face the Vulcan. The Vulcan's angular face, tinted green due to the high concentrations of copper in their blood, was crowned by the shortly cropped black hair that all Vulcan's seemed to possess.

"Yes, Lieutenant Spock. You come highly recommended by Commander K'Tillison."

Spock slowly turned his face to the science officer, who only retuned a blank stare, and then he returned his gaze to Captain Solow. "Recommended for what, sir?"

"I've been looking over your performance reports for the last several months while you've been attached to the astrophysics department. I'm impressed," Solow said flatly and with no emotion. Spock continued to meet his Captains gaze, but said nothing. Spock had the look of a living statue, breathing imperceptibly as he stood stock motionless. "I understand you've never served a bridge watch before either. Is that correct?"

"Quite correct, Captain." Spock replied.

"And you've never requested one before, is that also correct?"

"It is, sir." Spock finally moved, clasping his hands behind his back. Solow took the movement as either a sign that the Vulcan was bored with this line of questioning, or that Spock was simply settling in for a long question and answer session with his captain.

"And may I ask why that is, Mr. Spock?" Solow asked as he crossed his arms, his eyebrows rising on his forehead.

"The bridge is comprised of the senior staff, sir." Spock replied as if his statement was something the captain had never before considered. "The lead officers from each department are here. I am a junior science technician. Such a request by me would be… inappropriate." He said the last word as he looked to Solow's face for the first time.

"But you are qualified to utilize the various computers and equipment on the bridge, correct?" Solow asked as he waved his hand around the bridge.

"Yes, sir. I hold a level five computer clearance."

Solow thought there was an almost imperceptible air of arrogance on the Vulcan's face as he repeated his clearance level. "I see. Well, based on your performance reports… and the fact that I am in need of a sensor sub-system checkout officer on the bridge," he said, motioning with an open hand to the vacant station directly next to the science officers post. "You are hereby transferred from astrophysics, Lieutenant Spock."

Spock looked from the captain to the empty chair at the navigation sub-systems checkout station on the far side of the bridge. He nodded his head in slow approval without returning his gaze to the captain.

Solow smiled, thinking this was probably the best indication that he would get that the Vulcan was in shock. "Please take your station."

"Yes, sir." Spock said in the same flat monotone voice, his gaze still fixed on the empty chair at his new post.

Captain Solow looked to K'Tillison. When their eyes had locked he made a slight nod with his head in the direction of Spock. K'Tillison's green eyes moved to Spock as the Vulcan moved swiftly across the bridge, then she flashed the emerald gems back to her captain as she smiled and nodded her head in silent agreement. Solow's eyes shifted back to Spock, who was busying himself with the sensor readouts for the ships current destination as he gingerly sat at his new post. Herbert moved his eyes to the deck briefly, and he smiled gingerly as he remembered the first time he had been asked to take a station on the bridge.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The Delgon Expanse, an area of space named for a scientist from Selka who had charted its outer rim some twenty years ago, had been sitting motionless on the view screen of the Galina for almost an hour. On the bridge, Captain Solow was awaiting the final sensor report for their next destination, an uninhabited system on the edge of the expanse that had been assigned the designation Delgon-R. Solow had tasked junior science officer Spock to coordinate his efforts with Lieutenant Commander K'Tillison and the ships helmsman in order to get an accurate portrayal of what the Galina and the rest of the cruiser squadron would find when they entered the expanse. It was hoped that with all three of these top experts doing the job, Solow would get more than enough astrometric data about the expanse than he could use.

The Delgon Expanse was, in fact, just that: a large expanse of space, dominated by pockets of volatile gasses, ionic storms, asteroids and planetary debris, and the occasional gravity well. While it was a hazard to navigation on the inside, from the outside looking in it was a beautiful sight to behold. The expanse—with a total volume encompassing roughly two hundred light years—stretched from the Federation colony on Rebonet nearly all the way to Orion controlled space several sectors away. At the heart of the Delgon Expanse was said to be a pair of quantum singularities orbiting one another, although no manned ship had ever dared enter that far into the void. In fact, no computer controlled probe had ever returned. Federation scientists had been able to postulate the theoretical limit of the singularities event horizon—or the point of no return in a black hole—from the various probes and robot controlled scientific platforms that had been launched into the heart of the expanse never to return.

From the vantage point of the Galina, four light years from the edge of the expanse, the entirety of the area took on the look of a great nebula in space. The gasses and fragmentary debris, in conjunction with the heat signature of the singularities, gave the whole expanse a beautiful green outer glow—with pockets of orange and red cloudlike bursts, some thousands of meters wide, thrown in haphazardly for good measure. It reminded Solow of old images of the Trifid Nebula he had seen in history books, back from a time when that famous nebula had yet to be explored.

Now on the edge of the Delgon Expanse, Captain Solow was more than eager to get into this area of space and investigate the Delgon-R system—as it had only been photographed and studied from limited sensor probes launched into it some six months ago. Solow and his ten vessel cruiser squadron would be the first to see it in person, the first to take active samples, and the first to send actual reports back to Starfleet Command. The spirit of discovery and exploration was a huge morale boost to the tired and worn down crews of the Achernar-class cruisers from the 48th Battle Squadron, and they were thankful for their new assignment. This is, after all, why the vast majority of those personnel had joined Starfleet in the first place.

Captain Solow turned to the stoic Vulcan officer at the navigation sub-systems board. Lieutenant Spock, his face buried in the navigational sensor readout hood, turned his left hand slowly to adjusted the focus of the long-range sensors while his right hand busily entered information into the ships main computer for navigational analysis. The Galina's helmsman, the dark skinned Lieutenant Amboise of Antares, had already plotted the ships course using the last variables he had received from Mr. Spock and was now waiting on the final computations for those same figures. Even Commander K'Tillison, who by all rights should have been the foremost expert on the ships sensors and their operation, found herself with nothing to do as the Vulcan junior officer took effective control over the ships next movements.

The next words out of Spock's mouth would dictate whether the ship would fly into an asteroid, an explosive gas pocket, a stellar fragment, or who knows what else—or that nothing would happen to them at all. Solow wasn't sure if he should be thankful that he had called this junior officer into the bridge team or not. While it was admirable that Spock was performing the best calculations he could possibly manage, Solow also knew that there were reports of Klingon's in the general area, and that his squadron couldn't simply remain motionless in open space much longer. This is precisely where his lack of patience in Vulcan perfection broke down.

"Mr. Spock," the Captain began as he broke the deafening silence on the bridge. "How are those figures coming along?"

Spock, not bothering to look up from his instruments, answered almost lazily, as if he were performing a routine and boring scan of open space. "Figures will be in shortly, Captain."

Herbert cleared his throat. "You said that an hour ago, Lieutenant."

"Indeed," Spock replied. "And if I may say so, sir, the computer is now an hour closer to outputting its final calculations."

Several of the bridge officers, most notably K'Tillison, had to stifle their laughter at the Vulcan's remarks. Solow looked around the bridge and, as he did, the noises coming from each officer stopped as soon as his eyes would fall on them, until his eyes clamped to the back of Spock's head. "Are you trying to be funny, Lieutenant?" He asked, obviously irritated.

Spock looked up from the sensor and hood and turned briskly, clasping his hands behind his back and then addressed his captain. "No, sir. Not at all. In fact, I—"

"Don't bother trying to explain, Mr. Spock," Solow said in annoyance and held his palms up to the Vulcan. "Just get your tuchis back to those long- range sensors. I want answers, mister. I'd like to get out of this position as soon as possible, and we can't do that because we are all waiting on your answers."

Spock raised his left eyebrow as he briefly considered his captain's words. "You mean, sir, we are waiting on the computers response to my—"

"One more interruption, Spock, and you'll be out there polishing the deflector dish with a toothbrush! I don't care what you have to do to get the computer to spit out that data any faster. Sing it a song, tell it a story, give it a hug and promise to tuck it in tonight. Just get me some answers fast, Mister."

Spock, both of his eyebrows' now fully raised, thought about responding to the illogic of his captain's statement, but the illogic of making such a statement to an already agitated superior officer would have been far removed from protocol. Spock simply turned slowly and looked back into the blue glow of the navigational sensor hood. Solow turned in his chair to face K'Tillison, who was rubbing her temples with the soft pads of her fingertips. Solow absently began to do the same.

Vulcan's!

"* * * * *"

Forty-five minutes later the Galina and the rest of the 47th Battle Squadron were well on their way into the Delgon Expanse. The tremendous amounts of ionized gaze made it difficult to physically see anything more than a hundred meters in front of the ships. While the long-range sensors had yet to detect any enemy vessels in the area, once the Starfleet vessels had entered the expanse the signal strength of the sensors were nearly cut in half by the radiation interference from the nebula itself. Even the short-range sensors were barely adequate to keep the command cruisers from colliding with one another as they traversed the area, their individually blinking running lights all but useless in the murk of the expanse.

"Commander K'Tillison," Solow began, his gaze fixed on the swirling nebula that filled the view screen. "What are our readings of the immediate area?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary for Sector-J. All readings are within predefined specifications for this area."

Solow folded his arms across his chest. There must be something interesting inside this soup? "Very well. Helmsman, lay in a course for Sector-K, full impulse power."

"Aye, sir. Engaging impulse drive." Lieutenant Amboise replied, his tone dead pan.

As soon as the Lieutenant Amboise had finished speaking, Lieutenant Spock looked up from his sensor station. "Captain, I find this very curious."

Captain Solow, not in the mood for Vulcan effrontery, looked to the junior science officer almost distastefully. "Curious, Mr. Spock? Please explain."

"Sir, the navigational sensors are picking up an unusually strong reading from starboard."

Solow folded his legs and began to rub his chin pensively. Maybe the Vulcan actually found something interesting? "What kind of readings, Lieutenant?"

Spock furrowed his brow. "It's difficult to tell at this range, sir. However, I find it highly unlikely that the sensors are reporting any kind of natural phenomena."

"By natural, you mean anything that is supposed to be in this God forsaken wasteland?"

Spock looked away from Solow and to the forward view screen. The ship was just now passing a fat, puffy red ion cloud as it continued on its patrol to the innards of the expanse. Soon the screen was once again filled with the overall yellow swirling mass of the Expanse. "While the term 'wasteland' may not accurately describe this region of space, I believe you're definition of my statement is accurate, sir."

"Klingons?" Solow asked, although he wasn't sure why. Klingon's were actually the last thing he wanted to encounter in here, but with the Vulcan' revelation that the emissions were not natural, the possibilities became very narrow that it could be anything else but enemy contacts.

Spock turned back to Solow, nodded, and then raised an eyebrow. "There are a great many possibilities, Captain."

Solow looked to K'Tillison. "Are the readings verified, Commander?"

"The readings are verified, but obscured by a highly intensified radiation pocket nearby. However, I concur with Lieutenant Spock that this is not a natural phenomena. We won't know more about it until we get closer."

"Can you put it on the screen?"

K'Tillison turned to the science station and flipped a series of silver toggle switches, transferring the ships sensors data to the main viewer where, hopefully, there would enough information to create a three-dimensional image. A moment later the image on the forward view screen wavered and reformed into a brilliant swirling mass of green and orange gas, surrounded by a yellow aura of swirling dust.

"What are we looking at, Mr. Spock?"

"Our current charts of the nebula identify this as Sector-Q, sir. That is, of course, assuming our position data is correct."

Solow turned to the Helmsman. "Distance to that disturbance, Mr. Amboise?"

"Just shy of half a parsec away, sir."

That's well within our patrol area, Solow thought. "Set a course for the disturbance, half impulse. I want to get the source of those emissions identified as soon as possible. We have a lot more ground to cover in the Expanse before our mission is done, and I don't want to waste time chasing ghosts.

"* * * * *"

"They have taken the bait, my lord." Kudol said from the science station on the bridge of the Du'Toth.

"Excellent," Captain Kongar hissed, staring at the Federation ships as they glided further into the expanse. "This is almost too easy. Are we still undetected by their sensors?"

"Yes, my lord." Science Officer Kudol said through a smile of razor sharp teeth.

"Very good. Order all hands to prepare for combat. Make all weapons batteries ready. We will strike the Federation fools within moments!"

"* * * * *"

"Sir," Lieutenant Amboise started. "We're arriving at the coordinates."

"Intensify all forward scanners into that disturbance." Solow said, moving his gaze from the viewer to K'Tillison.

A moment later she read her report aloud. "Sir, I still can't get an exact reading. There may be too much radiation interference from the nebula."

"Spock?" Solow said, turning to the Vulcan.

Spock's eyes were instantly back in his sensor display. "I am attempting to triangulate both the long and short-range sensors, as well as the information from the navigational deflector, sir. I find it highly illogical that our information should be so conflicted the closer we came to the disturbance."

Less than a minute later Spock again spoke up. "Sir, Klingon cruisers at coordinates mark-point seven. Distance is point-five light years. They appear to be attacking a small vessel, possibly a merchant or scout-class ship."

Solow was on his feet instantly. "Helm, take us directly to that position, full impulse. Communications officer, advise the rest of the squadron to follow us is."

"Aye, sir." came the chorus of replies as the orders were received and executed.

As soon as the Galina was orientated in the correct direction, the impulse engines were engaged at full power. A split second later there was a violent trembling throughout the ship, followed abruptly by another, more violent jolt. The second series caused K'Tillison to be thrown from her station, Lieutenant Cavitt was slammed forward into the communications console, and Captain Solow had to grip the armrests of his chair with all his strength to maintain his position.

"Report!" Solow examined to anyone on the bridge who could give him an update.

"We seem to have struck something, Captain." Spock said.

"Set the view to full astern!"

On the forward view screen Solow could see the heavy cruiser Alfr and Darion speeding into the sector behind the Galina. The two ships were immediately rocked with explosions around the forward most portions of their primary hulls.

"What's happening?" Solow cried to anyone on the bridge who had the information he needed.

Spock was the first to speak. "If sensors are reading correctly, it would appear that we have entered a highly populated mine field of some type."

It was a trap! "Order all ships to withdraw at maximum speed!"

"It may already be too late, sir." K'Tillison replied. "All of the vessels are now firmly entrenched in the field."

"Mr. Cavitt, get me the—" Solow started, but Spock cut him off.

"Sir, explosion to port!"

Things were quickly going from bad to worse. "On screen!"

On the forward screen Solow could see two Federation cruisers floating dangerously close to one another. One—the Tholus—had struck another of the mines and was now slowly veering into the course of the Kaga. The Kaga had also apparently stuck a mine and was now dead in space.

"Communications Officer, raise Captain Hopwood on the Kaga!"

"Too late." Spock announced, just as the Tholus drifted sideways into the Kaga. The secondary hull of Tholus contacted the port warp nacelle of the Kaga, sheering it off of its pylon completely and causing extensive damage to both vessels. The running lights of the Kaga blinked out as the Tholus continued on her sideways drift into yet another mine. This time, with the shields of the Tholus down, the mine did an extraordinary amount of damage. The ensuing explosion blew a twenty meter chuck out of the starboard side of her saucer.

"Cavitt," Solow said to his communications officer. "Try to raise either the Tholus or the Kaga."

Lieutenant Cavitt's fingers danced across his station in a vain attempt to contact the two damaged vessels. "Sir, I'm not getting any response from the Kaga. All of her internal systems appear to be down."

"What about the Tholus?" Solow said as he watched the two stricken cruisers on the screen dance around one another.

Cavitt placed a hand to the communications receiver in his ear, as if to amplify the sound coming from it. "I'm receiving something sir…it sounds like…"

"Their warp core is going critical." Spock announced from his station.

Solow jumped from his chair as K'Tillison had finally made it securely back into her own. "How long?" he asked her.

"Readings show the core will reach super critical condition in less than two minutes." She replied.

"Can we beam aboard and stop it?" In his heart, he already knew the answer.

"Negative," Spock confirmed Solow's interpretation. "The Tholus is heavily damaged in her engineering and auxiliary control spaces. Also, due to the high radiation of the surrounding gas pockets, our own transporters would be unable to function with any degree of safety. I would advise—"

Solow turned an angry stare to the Vulcan. "I'm well aware that you think the 'logical' thing to do would be to maneuver away from the ships, but I'm not about to just sit by and watch the three hundred people on the Tholus perish, not to mention what that kind of damage that explosion will do to the Kaga."

"In her current state of repair, she would most like be destroyed as well." Spock said calmly, countering his captain with a cold gaze. "With all due respect, Captain, we have no hope of retrieving any of those crewmen. Logically, our only chance is to attempt to extricate ourselves and as many other vessels as we can before we are all destroyed."

Solow pursed his lips, thinking of something he could say to change the variables in their current situation.

Spock stood up from his station and walked slowly to his captain, either unaware or unaffected by the fact that his close proximity to the Solow was causing the normally jovial captain visible discomfort. "Sir," Spock began in a quit whisper. "This mine field is obviously the work of Klingon's. We have, as you humans would say, trapped ourselves in the spider's web. If we remain here, we will either be destroyed by the Klingon's who placed this field here, by the mines themselves, or as the result of the destruction of our own vessels. It is only a matter of time, sir. Our triangulated sensors have located all of the mines within a half parsec of our location. It will be possible, on minimal thrusters, to navigate away from this space if we leave now."

Solow clenched his fists and look to the forward screen. He felt the urge to pound on the handrail of his command chair, disregarding the utter futility of the outburst.

"Captain," Spock said with a raised voice. "We have sixty-seconds."

Solow slapped his thighs with his fists in frustration. "Mister Amboise, you will coordinate with Mister Spock. Get us out of here at the safest possible speed."

Spock quickly turned, grabbing the nearest handrail and vaulted himself into his chair. "Mister Amboise, your maneuvers will have to be exact. I will feed the coordinates of the mines into the navigational sub-processor as each of their locations is precisely calculated."

"Ready." Amboise replied, his fingers poised over his controls in anticipation.

"There three mines bearing mark-point two and two more at mark-point six. We will plot a course between them." Spock said as his eyes, bathed in the blue light of the sensor readout, remained locked inside the sensor hood.

The Galina moved away from the two stricken Federation cruisers and threaded herself between the two mines with the skill of a fine tailor. When the first hurdle was passed, Spock calmly spoke up from the navigation sub-station. "There is now a mine directly ahead."

Amboise quickly dipped the saucer of the Galina below the mine's position and sailed harmlessly under it.

"Sir, the warp core of the Tholus is going critical!" K'Tillison shouted.

"Spock, are we far enough away?" Solow shouted.

"Difficult to ascertain, Captain."

"Reverse angle on the screen!"

The image on the forward viewer changed to show the Tholus, having floated a half a kilometer from the Kaga. A moment later the entire ship exploded in a violent ball of white and blue plasma. Everyone on the bridge of the Galina, save for Spock, had to shield their eyes from the blinding light of the massive energy release. As soon as the light began to fade it was replaced by another explosion only a moment later, and again the bridge was bathed in a blinding flash.

"Sir, the Tholus and the Kaga have both been destroyed." K'Tillison said mournfully.

After a moment of silence on the bridge Spock was the first to speak "Captain, by all accounts we should have been partially enveloped in the shock wave from the destruction of the two vessels. In fact, there was almost no shock wave at all."

Solow sat back in his chair, both exhausted and emotionally drained. "Explanation?"

Spock raised his left eyebrow. "I have none, sir."

Suddenly everyone on the bridge was pulled forward as if the ship had suddenly gone into full reverse power.

"Sir!" Amboise shouted. "We are being pulled back towards our previous coordinates."

The Klingon's! "Tractor beam?" Solow asked.

"Negative, sir. The affects are similar to a gravity distortion of some type." Amboise replied.

"That's impossible, Lieutenant," K'Tillison scowled. "We aren't anywhere near a planetary mass or a stellar body. Even the core of the Expanse is to far away to have this kind of an effect on the ship."

Spock buried his face in his scanners again. After a few moments of adjustments he looked back to his captain. "Sir, these are more than just simple mines. They appear to be gravity inducing."

Solow shot the junior science officer a glance. "Gravetic mines?"

"Yes, sir."

Captain Solow contemplated the implications. "I've heard of gravetic mines, but I thought they were impossible to construct. The science required would be—"

"The theory behind the mechanism was sound, sir," Spock interjected. "But the Federation withdrew further funding on the research several years ago. It was postulated that the weapon was far too barbaric for any form of practical use."

"Is there any way to counteract the devices?" Solow asked as the Galina continued on her rearward course.

Spock's eyes moved to the forward viewer, his left eyebrow raised. "Any form of heavy particle reaction causes the intensity of their gravetic field to increase."

Solow rubbed his chin absentmindedly. "So… when one mine explodes, it releases a gravity field that pulls the ship closer to a neighboring mine, and—"

"And the process continues indefinitely until our ship is totally destroyed." Spock replied flatly.

"And the explosion of the Kaga and the Tholus was strong enough to ignite several of the mines simultaneously. The ensuing gravity filed was so powerful that it not only extinguished the warp core shockwave, it actually pulled us back off course."

"Precisely, Captain."

"And you say that any form of heavy particle reaction will cause the mines to be attracted to the ship's hull?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what would that look like, Mister Spock?" K'Tillison asked.

"The fusion reactors in the impulse drive will excite the mines to our location, as well as any type of laser burst. I would also speculate that the formation of a warp field would also draw them to our position."

The Captain was getting too tired to deal with this. "So, anything we try to do to escape will also cause us to be further trapped in this spider's web." The bridge crew was silent as the captain pondered the next step. "Mister Amboise, full stop."

"Aye, sir. Full stop." The helmsman replied, bringing the ship to a dead stop by using the smallest possible bursts from the maneuvering thrusters as he could in order to avoid the attraction of another mine.

Solow walked up to the navigation sub-systems board and sat on the edge. He folded his arms across his chest as he looked down to the Vulcan as a parent would when scolding a small child. "Well, Mister Spock?"

Spock cocked his head toward the captain, and then dropped it slightly. "Yes, sir?"

"You seem to be the expert here, Mister. So… how do we get out?"

Spock steeped his fingers for a moment as a torrent of possibilities ran through his mind. He would rush through every conceivable iteration of them, and then would cancel each of them out sequentially in a nanosecond as they became less and less feasible. He held his fingers to his lips for a full minute, then leaned back slight in his chair. "Sir, it may be possible to use a warhead to extricate ourselves."

"But you said that a particle discharge will only draw them closer to us. A torpedo puts out a hell of a lot of discharge."

"Yes, sir. It does, but I'm not referring to a torpedo."

"You're talking about an acceleration round?"

"Yes, sir."

"They're magnetically driven." Solow nodded in approval.

"And, therefore, wouldn't attract a mine to them when launched. If we could fire a spread of rounds near our point of entry, it may be possible that the resulting nuclear explosions will open a gap wide enough for us to escape."

"That's one huge gamble, Spock," The ships chief engineer spoke up from his console. "It might make a big hole for us to leave, but the gap would be surrounded by an enormous gravity well. If we try to go through it—"

"We'd be crushed like a grape." Solow finished.

"There is, however, a possibility for survival." Spock replied calmly. "If all of the remaining cruisers in our squadron form up very close to us, which my calculations suggest a maximum of fifty meters distance, the overlapping effect of our combined shields should allow us a safe passage through the opening."

"And how great is this possibility?" The chief engineer asked in disbelief.

Spock looked to his computer for a split second and then back to Solow. "It has never been done, but the equations are sound."

Solow smiled at the Vulcan, who only returned the expression with a raised eyebrow. "We don't seem to have much of a choice. Prepare to feed all of our sensor information about the mines locations to the rest of the squadron. Mister Cavitt, raise the rest of the 47th Battle Squadron on subspace. I want them to maneuver to our position on control thrusters only. When everyone is within five-hundred meters of us, we will execute Mister Spock's plan."


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Stardate 4104.09

April, 2253

Office of the President of the United Federation of Planets, Paris, Earth.

President Alohk Ixan sat at his desk going through the morning reports. Lately, there always seemed to be more information than he could possibly go through in a single sitting. As President, he was used to receiving updates from Colonial Operations Command, trade negotiations between various planets, new Federation member applications, successful and unsuccessful first contact missions, various diplomatic issues, and other such things that befitted a man in his position as President. However, since the beginning of the hostilities with the Klingon Empire, he was now privy to all of the casualty reports, losses of Federation held territory, war communications, losses and victories during battles, and supply and vessel transfers of all types.

While it was completely possible—and permissible—to allow others in the chain of command to handle some of the less glorious portions of his administration, Alohk felt a great sense of satisfaction in knowing everything that was happening on the front lines as they happened—or at least as much as he could glean from those same reports that took so long to travel the great distances from the front lines all the way back to Starfleet Headquarters on Earth. With the increase in Klingon activities along those same lines of conflict, the number of reports seemed to have doubled in quantity in the last two months.

As far as Starfleet Intelligence could discern, the Federation was currently holding their own against the invading Klingon forces. For every planetary system that was lost to the enemy, another one was either recaptured or was taken directly from the hands of the Empire. And, for every Starfleet vessel that was either damaged or destroyed beyond repair, the intrepid commanders in Starfleet were taking out choice targets of their own. In fact, Starfleet appeared to be capturing more enemy vessels than the Klingon's had been in the last six months, or so the reports from Starfleet Intelligence were purporting. The wealth of knowledge that Starfleet Intelligence had learned from those exploits was—by all accounts—the reason for the current stalemate, but it still wasn't enough to turn the tide, and Alohk knew it. President Ixan had made a personal note to form a comity, charged with seeking out the best and brightest engineering and technical minds in Starfleet, and placing them in a position where they could extract as much information from the captured enemy technology as possible, then turn that information into useful tactical data.

There has to be a way to break this deadlock.

It was widely reported that the Klingon's still outnumbered their Starfleet counterparts by a margin of nearly three-to-one on almost every front. Starfleet captain's, however, seemed to have gotten their feet firmly wet with regards to battle tactics and fleet maneuvers, which the Klingon's appeared to sorely lack. Alohk was now waiting on the final reports to come in from Starfleet Commander in Chief, Fleet Admiral John Murdock, and the recently promoted Admiral Kory Woodrolf of Starfleet Intelligence.

Alohk ran his lithe hands through a crop of silvery hair in the brief respite between official meetings he was holding with various heads of state. It was never wise to ever let anyone see you sweat—and this was especially true if you were the distinguished leader of the United Federation of Planets. In truth, Alohk was exhausted, both physically and mentally. He had found that sleep, whenever the time afforded him to catch up on such a luxury, often evaded him like an Orion pirate in a dense asteroid field. When he closed his eyes during those respites, he found himself longing for the lush green valleys and endless pink skies of his home planet, Deneva. He remembered with fondness the rich herbal teas his grandmother would make for him after a long day of toiling on his parent's farm under the warmth of the primary star of the Beta Darius system. His current supply of that tea was now running out, and President Ixan had found an almost palatable replacement in a Human refreshment called coffee. He had found the taste entirely too bitter for his liking at first, but he had also discovered its wonderful ability to allow him to appear in full command of his faculties and ready to take on any challenges he was faced with, should the need arise to quickly do so. A fresh warm cup was waiting for his hand as the last of his memoires faded behind the next message that began to scroll across his desktop terminal.

The President sipped at his steaming cup as his receptionist signaled from the waiting room that the heads of Starfleet had arrived. Without responding verbally to her signal, Alohk reached a tired finger to the admittance button and pressed the flashing yellow beacon on his desk that would automatically open his office doors to the two men that were waiting to speak to him. The admiral's walked briskly into the room before the beautiful oak doors had finished parting and stood at attention in front of the President's desk.

Alohk waved a hand frivolously at two plush chairs that had been placed in front of his desk. "Please, gentleman. Let's not stand on too much formality. Please be seated."

"Thank you, Mr. President." Admiral Murdock replied with a curt nod of his closely cropped gray hair.

Alhok's bright blue eyes turned quickly to the head of Starfleet Intelligence. "Admiral Woodrolf, congratulations on your recent promotion."

Cory Woodrolf's lips formed into a thin line that curled at the ends into a half smile. "Thank you, sir."

"Of course, Admiral. You're intelligence during this conflict is serving us exceedingly well. You are to be commended on your efforts."

"Thank you, sir. I only wish we could be using it to gain some real footing in this war."

Fleet Admiral Murdock's eyes went to Woodrolf in a sideways glance. "It's better than losing it, Admiral."

"Very true," President Ixan added. "Along those lines, I have to say that the reports coming in from The Triangle are the most promising of all of the intelligence I've seen lately."

Woodrolf was slightly shocked by the Presidents statement, and he instantly tried to hide that fact from his face. He really has his finger on the pulse of things around here. I didn't even know that information was on his desk yet! "You mean… the reports coming in from the Enterprise, sir?"

"To put it succinctly, yes." The President said with a quick nod. "Captain Pike is one of our best and brightest officers, and the Enterprise is performing exceptionally well under his command. The intelligence he's gathered from our operatives in that region is cause enough for praise on multiple fronts. I also understand he's formed several new contacts in the area as well."

Admiral Woodrolf coughed slightly as he tried to clear his throat, straightening in the plush green leather chair. "Yes, sir. Captain Pike has used these new sources to from dozens of new leads in the area. His investigation has been… "Cory looked for the right words from Murdock, but was only given a blank stare in response. "…thorough," Woodrolf said after a long moment. "We're preparing to dispatch another vessel to relive him."

"To relive him?" The Alohk asked in confusion. "But, they are doing so well?"

"Yes, Mr. President," Murdock quickly injected. "The Enterprise has been on station for over eighteen months. Starfleet Command feels it's time for her to come home. Captain Pike needs a formal debriefing and the ship itself is scheduled to undergo a brief dry dock period before we can send her back out."

Woodrolf took this as his queue to begin speaking again. "We have a deep cover team ready to pick up where the Enterprise is leaving off. The ship we're sending in is heavily disguised as a merchant freighter. We feel that they'll be able to perform even more successful covert operations than a Federation heavy cruiser."

President Ixan steeped his fingers on his desk and was contemplating the weight of their words. "And the Enterprise will remain near the front lines after her refit, yes?"

"Yes, sir. In a manner of speaking." Woodrolf continued cautiously.

"Oh? Please explain."

Woodrolf shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "While this information is exceedingly preliminary, Starfleet Intelligence is beginning to believe that the Constitution-class starships aren't ready to be placed fully under the auspices of Military Operations Command."

The President's eyebrows went up in surprise. "That's definitely news to me, Admiral. What's this information based on?"

Fleet Admiral Murdock stepped in efficiently. "Sir, it's all very preliminary at this point. We're still gathering all of the data from our units on the front lines. We have several Constitution-class ships near the warzone currently, they're performing within specifications, and we have no immediate plans to… recall the class at this time. Rest assured, sir, that if and when the time comes to make a decision of this magnitude, you'll already have all of the answers to the questions that are probably on your mind right now."

This answer seemed, for the moment, to quell the Presidents curiosity.

Admiral Woodrolf piped in before the President could voice another concern. "However, once the Enterprise is ready and her new personnel have checked aboard, she'll be stationed near the Rigel system."

Alohk looked to his fingers, nodded slowly, and spoke without looking to the men. "Indeed. Rigel is probably the most important sector we can attempt to protect from further Klingon incursions," He lifted his head and looked to Murdock. "We're still on shaky ground with the Orions, and the last thing we need is a repeat of incidents that will hamper our dilithium shipments." The President folded his hands into his lap as he continued. "Speaking of Pike's personnel transfers, I understand that the brilliant young science officer who led our forces safely out of the Delgon Expanse has requested a transfer to Galaxy Exploration Command."

"Well… it wasn't entirely safely," Murdock said furrowing his brows. "We lost nearly a dozen command cruisers in the engagement, with a handful more being severely damaged."

Ixan nodded, nearly cutting the Admiral off when he began to speak. "None the less, Admiral, we need inventive young people like this serving at the top positions in the fleet near critical locations inside Federation territory. And, it would seem to me that the Rigel system is our most crucial asset at this time."

"Yes, sir." Murdock said flatly.

"I'd like to see this Lieutenant Spock transferred to the Enterprise as soon as the ship returns to port."

"I believe he's a lieutenant junior-grade, Mr. President." Woodrolf corrected Alohk, but then instantly regretted the comment.

"Not any more." Ixan replied sharply. "As I've been looking over this young man's Starfleet Record, I think he'd be an excellent choice for the lead science officer position on the ship. It seems to me that keeping him at his current post would be a tremendous waste of his abilities. Of course, I will respect Captain Pike's judgment in this matter. You will please handle all of the details of the transfer, Admiral Murdock."

"Absolutely, sir." Murdock replied with a nod, entering the information into an electronic data pad in his lap.

"And Admiral Woodrolf, I'd like to see the official deposition of Captain Pike myself as soon as it becomes available. In fact, I'd like to view the debriefing live, if possible. See if we can set up a secure subspace communications link from Starbase 10 directly back here to Earth."

The President also knows about the experimental long-range subspace repeaters? He'd have too in order to make a request like that. Someone in Intelligence is going to have to learn to keep their mouth shut. "Of course, sir. I'll take care of it personally."

"Very good. What else do you gentlemen have to report?"

For the next hour the two Starfleet admiral's conferred with President Ixan about the state of affairs between the Federation and the Klingon forces. They updated him on the most recent sub-space communications they had each received, the personnel and property losses, and the overall battle plans for the next phase of the engagement. While Ixan was aware of a great number of these details, there were tidbits of knowledge that he could only learn from asking the admiralty directly.

"Sir," Woodrolf began casually. "There is one final note to report. Starfleet Intelligence has sufficient evidence to suspect that the Klingon's are going to force a major engagement somewhere near Starbase 23 in the next several weeks."

President Ixan's eyes narrowed. "Based on the Intelligence reports you've been given me, this doesn't come as a big surprise. I had hoped that this was going to another false alarm by the Klingon's, but it seems now that they are really looking for a fight. This is your final assessment as well, Admiral?" Alohk asked, turning to Murdock.

Murdock looked to Woodrolf, and then back to the President. "It is, sir. We have several squadrons of cruisers, destroyers, and frigates converging on are area of space five parsecs from Starbase 23. We've dubbed this staging area Sector 23-H."

"How many ships will be there once the fleet is assembled?" The President asked, steeping his fingers to his chin.

"If all goes well between the various commands, we will be looking at a combined fleet total of two-hundred and twenty-five starships of varying classes. We've assigned them the designation of the 11th Strategic Squadron."

"And who has been placed in overall command of the 11th?"

"Rear Admiral Everett, sir." Murdock replied.

"Pearson Everett? The commandant of Starfleet Academy?" Alohk asked in near astonishment.

"The same," Woodrolf said with a smile. "He transferred back into the fleet last year after his tour at the academy was complete."

"Well," President Ixan replied with a chuckle. "Based on what I've heard of his reputation, I'd say it looks like those Klingon's will be in for one hell of a fight. What kind of resistance is Admiral Everett looking to face in that sector?"

Woodrolf looked to Murdock, pursed his lips, and then glanced back at the President. "From what Starfleet Intelligence has learned, the numbers look to be almost even, with the Klingon's holding a slight advantage. They will have roughly two-hundred and ninety ships at their disposal. However, Intelligence has learned that a vast majority of those ships will be destroyers and light cruisers."

"I think Admiral Everett will be able to control the situation adequately, sir," Murdock said with a slight smile as he folded one of his legs over the other. "Our combined forces will be made mostly of both heavy and light cruisers, with a smattering of destroyers and frigates to augment them."

"I see," President Ixan said as he nodded in approval. "Keep me posted on anything either of you men hear about this engagement. I want to be privy to the information as soon as it comes in and not a moment later. This signifies a major push by the Klingon's to get a key foothold in our territory, and I don't want to waste this opportunity to push them back—and back hard."

"Yes, sir." the two Admiral's said in unison, then sat quietly for a half minute.

"Excellent," The President moved from behind his desk to refill his empty coffee mug. "If there's nothing more, gentlemen, you are dismissed."

"* * * * *"

Stardate 4105.10

May, 2253

Dearest Emily,

I was certainly glad when I got that letter from you this evening. It took nearly six days for it to reach me here by sub-space, but of course it had to come by the way of a relay station near Findesa, and the word is that the communication staff on the station has to go through every letter line-by-line to make sure that they don't contain any classified material.

I'll try to answer some of the questions that you asked me in your last message in the order you asked them, if I'm able. I think I told you in my last communication what kind of work I'm doing now on the ship. I don't know why they move me so much. A job with the science department in Starfleet is just like any other job I held outside of the service, except that we get state of the art equipment here and no one bats an eyelash about requisitioning for anything else we might need. You see, the science department here on the Portsmouth takes up almost the entire deck, and they have more than three dozen officers and specialists, then there all of the science staff heads and then, finally, the senior science officer himself.

No. I have never, as of yet, been onto a Starbase, and it looks as though I may not get on one for a long time to come. The senior officer in charge here says we'll be out in space for at least another month anyway. But you can never tell what will happen.

I have made friends everywhere I have been stationed on ship. There are some mighty fine fellows in Starfleet. I even met a guy from Berkley. He says he's known my dad ever since pops was just a kid. His name is Charley Bradley. I really wanted to get to know him better, but then we were sent to different departments on the ship. As such, I've now lost all my old friends to personnel shuffling. I was sent to deflector control alone. I have made a few new friends here and everything is a lot better now, but they can't take the place of my old friends in the life science's department.

You asked about our living conditions. Well, we eat in a large dining hall which looks like it's as long as a city block long. We all line up at the replicator bins in single file and, as you pass along them, you help yourself to whatever the ship's stores have programmed in at that moment. It's just cafeteria style dining, much like the atmospheric station on Marcos II was those many months ago. When you're done getting what you want you sit down anywhere and, well, you know what comes next. We sleep in two man staterooms, where we each share one computer terminal and a sonic shower. There is a nice gymnasium and I've heard rumors of a bowling alley on deck nine. I'm going to look into that one tomorrow. Lights are out at 21:30 for most of the crew in order to conserve power.

No, I haven't heard from Uncle Joe in a long time. I've written him twice since I was stationed aboard ship, but haven't heard from him since. Do you know what's going on?

No, I don't have a gold stripe on my sleeve yet. Even though I'm one step up from an ensign, I'm still considered a junior lieutenant. Someday soon I hope to have that solid gold braid around my cuffs. I'm sure it'll be here in due time. Thanks for the congratulatory words, though. It warms my heart to know how proud you are of me.

I am really glad that your folks are moving into town, and I am sorry you can't go swimming next Sunday. I've gone swimming several times in the ships pool, but it's just not the same as those beautiful warm oceans on Marcos. It'll be nice to have your folks closer, and I'm glad you won't be so lonely. I hope you do learn to pilot that new skimmer your parent's bought! How exciting for you. I can't imagine my girl not knowing how to pilot her way to the grocery store. With all of the credits I've been putting aside, I'm sure we can buy one of our own when I get back.

I just noticed this on the back of that last letter you sent. You said that this is the third letter that I've received since I have been on board, and the other was a card? No, that isn't right at all. This is the second one, two letters and one card. I'll check the message logs in the ships computer and verify it, but I'm sure I'm right. I'd hate to think I missed a message from you.

We linked up with the U.S.S. Darion yesterday. That's Jason Bradford's ship, remember? Man, I haven't seen that guy since we were both cadets at the Academy. I hear he's made full lieutenant and has a pretty important position on his ship. Then again, he's on a cruiser and I'm only on a destroyer. That being said, there are a lot more opportunities to get ahead when you have a full captain in command and not a run-of-the-mill commander like we do.

Say, I had quite a time the other night. We had an accident in defector control. One of the back-up conduits overheated and melted, causing the secondary systems to go into full power mode. There were only two guys down there, as I was off duty at the time. The first man was okay, but the second got some serious burns on his arms from trying to secure the ruptured panel. They took him to sickbay and I was told recently that he'll be out of commission for awhile. I feel bad for the guy, but it also vaulted me into his position as second officer in charge of deflector control. While the title may sound impressive, it really isn't that big of a deal. I still have a senior officer over me, and he has the science officer over him. Maybe now there's a chance Commander Atwell will notice me, but I'm not holding my breath. It'd be nice to go on a landing party sometime, or even get asked into a meeting with the senior staff, but I think those are probably just pipedreams at the moment.

There isn't much else going on right now. We know that we are gearing up for something big, but everyone is being really hush-hush about the whole thing. I've been told to standby (get ready for the inevitable) to do double shifts in deflector control and I've been asked to make some special modifications to the long-range sensors in anticipation. I suppose I could write more about it, but I know it'd just be censored out of this communication by the time you get it. As it is, you may not get this message in its entirety.

I hope to hear back from you soon. I know it will take at least six days for this message to get to you, and just as long to get back if you respond as soon as you get it. Please remember that I don't expect you to. I know you're busy, and I hate asking more of you than you can give right now. Just know that your words, whether they come in message format or in a pre-recorded message (which I love the most) all mean the world to me. They help me through the rough times and the long hours of boredom.

I promise to write more next time.

All My Love,

Charles

"* * * * *"

Stardate 4105.12

May, 2253

Captain pike leveled his eyes at the image of Starbase 10 looming on the view screen. The large mushroom shaped central disk, bulky enough to hold a half dozen starships, was surrounded by a ring of six sphere shaped docking bays, each of which were capable of swallowing two Constitution-class vessels with plenty of space to spare. The top of the central disk was allocated to a complex of navigational and communications arrays, with the lower half of the dock used for parts replication and tooling.

"Space Dock 5, you have control." Pike said as the enormous outer doors of the fifth sphere opened to display their contents, a single Bonhomme Richard-class medium cruiser looking the worse for wear. Looking at her from the stern view, Pike could tell her impulse deck was smashed, the port warp nacelle was completely missing, and the hanger bay clamshell doors were torn from their tracks and dangling below the secondary hull.

"Roger, Enterprise. Control established. Welcome to Starbase 10." The surprisingly soothing voice of the female dock controller said.

"Enterprise confirms, Starbase." Captain Pike replied into the speaker in the armrest of his chair as he leaned into the soft leather of his chair.

The U.S.S. Enterprise slowly guided through the great space doors as they slid into their respective alcoves on either side of Starbase 10's outer most docking pod. As the starship passed slowly by a large rectangular outcropping inside the sphere, a structure that served as some of the stations administrative and communications office spaces, several onlookers had gathered at the large transparent aluminum windows that looked out into the great expanse of the docking sphere at the majestic starship Enterprise and watched intently as she passed by.

In the last several months, not a day had gone by when some starship, destroyer, frigate, or support craft was entering or leaving one of the outer space dock structures. Sometimes the vessels would come in for just a few days, taking on supplies and new crewmembers, only to leave just as quickly to head back out to the front line of the war or—hopefully—more propitious ports of call. Sometimes the ships coming in would just barely make it in under their own power, with streaking back lines across their hulls denoting the furious battles they had encountered, while other ships—or hulks—that were seemingly devoid of life, would be slowly towed in by any number of the stations assigned tug ships, as if they were in a funeral procession. Pike wondered to himself just how the Enterprise's dock-mate had made it here. Where did she fall on that list?

The Enterprise herself currently represented a mix of the two former descriptions. While she was fully capable of performing her own docking maneuvers, she was by no means as pristine as the day she had sailed from her construction piers hovering in space high over San Francisco bay. Several of the onlookers at the Starbase's windows, both Starfleet and civilian alike, pointed at the large vessel across the hundred or so meters of open space that separated them from the starship. They spoke in hushed whispers at the obvious impact damage the Enterprise had on the underside of her primary and secondary hulls. The occasional child would ask their parents the meaning of the discolored plates that covered damage on her warp pylons or her ventral neck support structure. 'Battle damage', the parents would whisper. 'Those plates are only temporary. They are just like the band-aids that mommy puts on your cuts. The ship will be as good as new soon.'

As the great starship came to a slow halt inside docking pod 5, a large cylindrical gantry way extended out from the station and contacted with the docking hatch on the port side of the Enterprise's primary hull, followed by two smaller transparent ones that joined with the ships secondary hull. Within minutes the onlookers at the large windows could see people and equipment moving back and forth to the weary starship, giving the appearance that she vessel was receiving a monolithic transfusion of life regenerating materials as the dock workers fastidiously began the much needed repairs.

As the ships system began their power-down procedures, the color slowly faded from the glowing red caps of the warp nacelles, getting dimmer by the second until they were almost as gray as the nacelles themselves. Some of the interior lights in the hull went dark and a few others went on. Finally, the blinking red, green, and white running lights that denoted a ship in the service of Starfleet winked in unison one final time before they were silently extinguished.


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Stardate 4105.21

May, 2253

Sector 23-H

The area of space surrounding the ships was almost completely devoid of anything remarkable. Sector-23H, as it was being called by the Federation war planning department, was six parsecs to the galactic north-east of Starbase 23. Here, where there had once been a thriving planetary system, there was now almost nothing left in the immediate vicinity. The remains of the planetary system, dubbed NGC 1108-BE fifteen years ago when it was first charted, contained only a single planetary body. It was a large moon that several consecutive archeology surveys had concluded contained humanoid life some two-thousand standard years ago. At one time, the moon had been a Class-M planet, the final planet in a system containing three gas giants and a G-Type star.

It was still unknown to the Federation scientist that had been studying the lifeless planetoid whether or not its inhabitants had known that their sun was going to swell and engulf the inner planets, but recent evidence had pointed to that fact. The remnants of that star, now a swirling and glowing mass of stellar debris, had coagulated into a dense gaseous cluster that now bathed the dead world that it had once given life too with a soft yellow light. The planet was now little more than a rock, with an atmosphere so thin it required life-support masks to be worn by any expedition wanting to traverse its barren surface. There was almost no vegetation, and all signs of technology and industry now lied dormant beneath a half a kilometer of sand and rock. There were a great many unanswered questions here, and they were questions that would have to remain unanswered. At least, for the duration of the war.

The only thing for certain about the system was why the Klingon's had chosen this sector to wage the single largest fleet engagement since their war with the Federation had begun. Sector-23H was on the far edge of what was widely believed to be the overall strategic push of the Klingon Empire into Federation space. The Klingon forces in the area, which was comprised of a major remnant of Admiral Kone's fleet that had departed the Klingon held system of H'Rez almost two years before, were slowly and destructively pushing their way deeper and deeper into Federation held territory—and exacting a high degree of chaos in the process.

Starfleet's 11th Strategic Squadron commanding officer, Rear Admiral Pearson Everett, situated deep within the innards of his flagship—the Heston-class battle cruiser U.S.S. Tracy—leaned over the large status table in the ships command and control compartment and studied the currently unfolding battle. The display table was little more than a standard view screen that had been placed flat on its back and supported by a single trapezoid shaped duranium leg in its center. The only modification to the display was the introduction of a touch sensitive material that the observer could use to interact with the various graphics the table displayed. As such, a tactile map of the sector was now being displayed, with each ship accounted for by a separate symbol. There were stars for battle cruisers, triangles for cruisers, circles for destroyers, squares for frigates, and smaller squares for any type of support craft or shuttle. The Federation markers were in blue and the Klingon's were in red, with the lifeless planetoid hanging behind the Klingon's line.

Admiral Everett looked to the table screen with a sense of apprehension as the Federation forces, made up mostly of Apache-class destroyers, Achernar-class command cruiser, and Tikopia-class medium cruisers, seemed to be holding their own against the Klingon hordes, themselves made up of a large number of D-16A light cruisers and L-6B frigates. Around Everett, on each of the four walls of the command center, were other screens showing various tactical, sensor, and damage reports to a range of senior control officers who themselves would relay voice communications from the Admiral to the rest of the fleet. Thus, there were dozens of voices to be heard in the room at any given moment as men and women moved back and forth from station to station as they coordinated their ongoing attack.

The Tracy shuddered lightly, and Everett instinctively grabbed the brushed aluminum sides of the table with both hands to steady himself. The last enemy shot that had been intended for the old battle cruiser hadn't struck, but it had gotten pretty close. A flicker of the overhead lights caught Pearson's attention and he glanced upwards as their intensity wavered for a split second, and then returned to their normal luminous levels. Of the over two-hundred Federation ships that were now squaring off with a nearly equal number of Klingon targets, only a small percentage of the Starfleet ships could be designated to provide cover for the fleet commander's ship. Everett moved his eyes back to the table and focused on the symbol that represented the Tracy, then quickly scanned for the triangle that represented the lead ship that was designated as thier protective screen. He reached his finger out quickly and touched the glowing triangle of a medium cruiser that was quickly approaching the Tracy's position. The color momentarily changed from blue to yellow under the pressure of his fingertip, which had the effect of immediately opening a secure subspace communication's link between the vessel and the combat center onboard the Tracy.

"Captain Blackwell, report your status." Everett said, not averting his eyes from the triangle that represented the cruiser Bonhomme Richards.

A moment later Blackwell's deep voice came over the speakers that surrounded the compartment, drowning out any other voice that was being piped through the other various terminal speakers. "Blackwell here, Admiral. One of the Klingon frigates managed to get off a shot at the Tracy. Sorry about that, sir." His tone bordered on arrogance.

Everett had specifically asked for William Blackwell to take command of the screen for the Tracy. Everett wanted someone who was cool under pressure and knew how to operate in tight quarters under heavy attack. In a perfect world, Everett would have wanted Fleet Captain Garth at his side, but Garth was entangled in another sector at the moment, and Blackwell was available and eager. It also went without saying that Everett liked Blackwell, both professionally and personally. They two men had a deep understanding of what it would take to fight this war and come out victorious, a conviction they both shared many times in the officers mess in the evenings leading up to this engagement.

Everett couldn't help but smile softly at William's voice and at its impertinent tone. "I trust you won't let him get off another shot, Captain." Everett said to the triangle on the screen, noticing with satisfaction that the Bonhomme Richards had swung around in a tight semicircle and had gotten directly astern of the offending Klingon frigate. Seconds later the red square that represented the L-6B frigate dissolved completely from view, which was just as quickly followed by a soft shudder in the Tracy's outer hull.

"I don't think he'll be bothering us anymore, Admiral." Blackwell said triumphantly.

"Excellent, Captain. Well done. Please coordinate with the Mirfak, the Bellatrix, and the Portsmouth. I want a tight formation around the Tracy at all times."

There was a brief crackle of static through the speakers which was immediately followed by Blackwell's voice again. "Understood, Admiral."

"Remember, Captain, that if anything happens to the Tracy, all command functions will immediately be transferred to Captain Duval on the Constitution. You will be required to move to his position upon confirmation of the command change."

"Yes, sir. I understand perfectly."

"* * * * *"

On the bridge of the destroyer U.S.S. Bonito, the ships commanding officer—Lieutenant Commander Max Ormond—watched the visual display in front of him with a sense of utter astonishment. There, directly abeam of the Bonito, was the Constitution-class cruiser U.S.S. Republic. The Republic, along with the Exeter and the Constitution, represented the largest gathering of Constitution-class ships in a single engagement thus far. Commander Ormond watched in silence as the Republic and the Exeter quickly dissected two Klingon heavy cruisers while simultaneously managing to fend off no less than three others. Truly, he thought to himself, they deserve their titles as 'the queen's of Starfleet'. While the starships were a beauty to behold, Ormond knew he could spare little time relishing in the victories of his shipmates. He had to score some victories of his own.

The Klingon and Federation forces were buzzing like fireflies around one another. One Starfleet vessel would score a hit for the friendly forces, only to be destroyed a moment later by another Klingon ship that he had failed to see. This Klingon would, in turn, be destroyed by another Starfleet ship…or a team of them. The Bonito, her forward lasers blazing in ever widening arcs, was just another of those fireflies in icy cold darkness of space.

After watching the victories of the two heavy cruisers, the Bonito's science officer immediately reported that an enemy D-7 and a D-16 had both acquired a weapons lock on the small Apache-class Federation destroyer. The Bonito, one of twenty-six similar vessels built a decade earlier, was designed with the most sophisticated computer and defensive systems known to Federation science at that time. Since then, however, those vessels had been lagging behind the technology curve of other ships in similar classes. Starfleet Research and Development had found very little they could do to augment the Apache-classes already insufficient weapons, as the hull design didn't leave a great deal of support structure for the newer weapons and computer control systems they would require to operate. Lieutenant Commander Ormond, as well as his fellow destroyer commanders, would have to make good with what they had—and they proudly tried to do so.

Ormond, upon receiving the news that he was being targeted, tried vainly to move the Bonito into a more tactically advantageous position away from the oncoming Klingon attackers. The Apache's were not known for their strong offensive capabilities when faced one-on-one with an opponent, let alone when they were ganged up on. The strength of the small Federation destroyer came in their numbers, usually when three of the vessels were employed together against a single foe. Unfortunately, the Bonito was all alone in her current engagement.

"Communications officer," Ormond began steadily. "Try to raise the tactical coordinator on the Tracy. See if they can dispatch assistance to our location."

Ensign Canery, the young man from Beta Arant II, tried desperately at his controls as his fingers flew across his console. His long slender fingers, twice the length of normal humans, glided over the communication controls with practiced efficiency, but in the end it had proven futile. "It's no good, sir. Either the communications are being jammed or the Tracy is being overwhelmed with calls. Either way, I can't get through to them." He finished in frustration.

Ormond tried to form a calm facade over the inner trembling of his body. He wanted his crew to think he was in complete control of the situation. The Bonita was his first command, his first test as a commanding officer, and he didn't want to fail the crew or himself the first time out of the gates. "It looks like we'll have to handle these ones by ourselves, people. What are the exact positions of the enemy vessels?"

The science officer, Lieutenant Chantfield, read the readings directly from his display without looking up. "The D-7 is bearing one-four-three mark-point two. The D-16 is bearing mark-point five."

Ormond straightened his gold uniform tunic by pulling down on its bottom hem. "Bring forward lasers to bear on the D-16. Helm, take us in to within two-hundred meters."

"We might not last long at close range, sir." Chantfield offered.

"We'll last longer against them than we would against that D-7." Lieutenant Commander Ormond said as he waved his golden-brown hand at the forward viewer.

Chantfield looked to the forward view screen as the image of the D-16 grew steadily larger. He nodded slightly at the image and looked to his captain. "I hope you're right, sir."

Ormond, dismissing the science officers comments for the time being, shouted to the weapons officer. "I want the aft missile launchers standing by, as well. If we're lucky, we can catch the D-7 off guard while we give the D-16 a onceover."

The helmsman's voice rang out. "We'll be in weapons range of the D-16 in… five seconds."

"Make every shot count, Mr. Belon." Ormond said to the navigator as the two men stared at the view screen.

Just as the D-16 came into weapons range, it suddenly dipped forward and shot ahead at half impulse. The lasers blasts from the Bonita streamed through empty space above the frigate, missing the enemy ship entirely.

"A miss, sir!" Chantfield exclaimed.

"Fire the aft missile launchers," Ormond shouted. "Try to get a piece of him!"

The circular aft launch door of the Bonita slid open and, a moment later, the purple fusion glow of an antimatter missile streamed out from behind the ship. The missile, itself a simple automated drone, was as fast as any Klingon ship at combat speed. Unlike a photon torpedo, however, a drone missile would actively seek its target out once it had an established a positive lock. The only hope of escape for the enemy vessel was to either shoot the weapon down or to attempt to evade it long enough for the missile to run out of its solid fuel. In the event of the later, the drone was designed to act like a magnetic mine, arming itself the moment an enemy vessel came within fifty meters. In the saturated space of Sector-23H, Ormond didn't think that would be a problem.

Max and the rest of the bridge crew watched on the viewer as the missile streaked downward and found its target, exploding against the D-16's shields.

"Their aft shields are down to forty-five percent, Captain." Chantfiled said proudly.

Ormond failed to suppress his own elation. "Helm, Z-minus twelve hundred meters! I want to finish that guy!"

"Sir," Chatfield said with an air of surprise and confusion. "The D-7… it's no longer on our port."

Ormond jumped from his chair in surprise, he reflexes activating before his mind had fully comprehended the meaning of the words. His legs vaulted him to the railing behind the science station. "Where is he?"

"Above us, sir. A thousand kilometers and closing rapidly."

"He's executing a Delta-Z!" Helmsman Belon yelled.

The D-7, its front arsenal now pointed directly at the top of the Bonita, opened fire without a moment's hesitation. First, long lines of green disruptor energy sped out from either side of the Klingon's bridge module, followed quickly by two blasts from its forward torpedo launcher. The single warp nacelle of the Bonita, held aloft on a solitary pylon, crumpled under the onslaught. The spinning red ramscoop cap exploded in a shower of sparks and pelted the primary hull with white hot transparent aluminum shards.

On the bridge, the communications station erupted in a ball of flames. Ensign Canery was ejected from his chair and shot against the bridge railing, causing a spray of blood to instantly pelt Lieutenant Commander Ormond's back. The Bonita was shuddering and creaking, sounds that none of her crew had ever heard the small destroyer make. It sounded as if she were breaking apart at the seams. The lights flickered, and then went out completely, only to be replaced a few seconds later by the dim glow of the red emergency lights.

Ormond looked down at the lifeless form of Ensign Canery, then to the stunned but coherent form of Lieutenant Belon at the helm.

"Helmsman, get us out of here!"

Canery's left hand was smashed and two of his fingers were bent down at an odd angle. The Ensign hadn't realized it until he tried to input the new course with the defective digits. Andrew thought this strange, because he knew in his mind that there must be pain associated with the wound, but he felt none. I must be in some serious shock. When the controls failed to respond, he tucked his wounded hand close to his chest. "The helm isn't responding sir."

"All power is at minimum, sir." Science officer Chantfield said, holding his left palm to a large gash on his forehead.

"Shields?" Ormond asked breathlessly. "Weapons?"

There was a silence on the bridge for what seemed like an eternity. "All down, sir." Chantfiled said sorrowfully.

Ormond licked his lips and tasted the saltiness of fresh blood. He stepped over to his chair and punched the intercom button and connected the bridge to engineering.

"Chief Engineer Yonker. Stand by too—"

The bridge erupted in another violent shake, causing everyone standing to be thrown to their feet.

In the combat center of the Tracy, Rear Admiral Everett watched as a small circle that represented the U.S.S. Bonita dissolve into a computer generated mist, just as so many other Federation ships had in the last several minutes. Despite the valiant efforts of the Starfleet crews, the battle was slowly turning in favor of the Klingon forces. Some of the Federation's strongest ships were now either out of commission or were running dangerously low on hard weapons. The Exeter and the Tikopia-class cruiser Bellatrix were severely damaged and had been ordered out of the system—under the protests from both of their commanding officers. The Achernar-class cruiser Jassan had been destroyed minutes ago in an antimatter explosion that had not only taken out two squadrons of attacking Klingon destroyers, but it had also managed to wipe out two Starfleet cruisers and a handful of frigates in the immediate area.

The destroyers Portsmouth and Cambodia were now making attack runs around the Tracy, weaving and bobbing around the slower moving heavy cruisers of both fleets in the process. However, the Cambodia's helmsman wasn't as skilled as the men on the Portsmouth. After turning tightly around the hulks of several D-7's that were burning uncontrollably, it ran headlong into a Klingon frigate that was, itself, attempting to get out of the way of a careening Larson-class destroyer that was spinning end over end. Both the Cambodia and the Klingon frigate exploded in a violent ball of light and debris in the ensuing collision, taking out the nearby powerless Larson, as well as anyone who might have been alive on the vessel.

Everett watched the status table nervously as a graph representing the overall strengths of the fleets moved, and not in the favor of the Federation forces. The Klingon's appeared to be regrouping, pushing the Federation forces back against the dead planetary body in the system that was now at their stern. Admiral Everett knew that the Starfleet officers were about to have a noose put around their necks and he tried desperately to search the status table in front of him for answers to the problem. Just then a communication came in from Captain Blackwell.

"Admiral, this is Captain Blackwell on the Bonhomme Richards. I just lost the Rutherford and the Mirfak. I'll need two more cruisers on my wing to protect the Tracy, sir. Permission to call up the Republic and the—"

Everett reached for the blinking icon that represented the Bonhomme Richards and gave it a firm tap, effectively ending Blackwell's statement so he could begin speaking. "Permission denied, Captain. All of the vessels… repeat, all of the Federation vessels are engaged and can't be spared at this time."

"Things are going to get really tight in here unless we can get some breathing room, Admiral." Blackwell said through the intercom. Everett looked up to the faces of the officers that surrounded him in the combat center of the Tracy. It seemed Blackwell's statement was on their hearts and minds as well. After all, they knew the situation just as well as Admiral Everett did, although he was probably the only one with the entire picture clearly formed in his mind.

As Everett looked back to the status board, and the growing ratio of Klingon ships to Federation vessels, another Starfleet icon began to blink in an alternating pattern of yellow and blue. It was the Constitution requesting communications.

"Captain Blackwell, please standby. I'm receiving an urgent call from the Constitution," and with that, Everett touched the triangle that represented the Constitution, thus changing the blinking triangle to a solid yellow. "This is Admiral Everett. Go ahead, Constitution."

"Admiral, this is Captain Duval. Request we withdraw to the prearranged coordinates and regroup for another attack."

"And lose this sector, Captain?" Everett replied, irritated by Duval's suggestion. "I'm not about to give it up to the Klingon's. We can still win this one."

There was a long pause from Duval, and Everett wondered if the Captain was choosing his next words carefully. "With all due respect, sir, I feel that we've already lost this sector to the enemy. If we stay here much longer they could do irreparable damage to the fleet. I'd hate to sacrifice people and equipment here for a dead planet and nebula."

Everett slammed his fist hard against the steel edge of the table. "It's not what's in this system that concerns the Klingon's, Captain. It's the sector itself. If the Klingon's manage to form a staging ground here, they'll have access to—"

One of the men who had been monitoring the communications network in the commander center walked up quickly behind the Admiral. "Admiral Everett?"

Everett, his fist still clenched on the table top, slowly turned to face the man speaking to him from behind his left shoulder. It was Lieutenant Commander Moldenhauer, an older officer that had made a name for himself as the former commanding officer of a research ship. "Yes, Commander?" Pearson asked, placing his bruised fist into the palm of his other hand and began rubbing it absentmindedly.

Muldenhauer's ice blue eyes peered into the admirals as the commander dropped his tone to a soft whisper. "Sir, top secret communiqué just in from Commander Litho on the Thomas Gage."

Everett didn't need to be told twice what that meant. The Thomas Gage, as well as two other Siva-class destroyers, was supposed to be guarding the Falgor system. That system, only two parsecs from Sector-23H, was to be the location that Federation forces would evacuate to in the event the 11th Strategic Squadron would need to regroup. Everett licked his lips as his eyes darted quickly around the room, seeing if anyone else was listening to their hushed conversation.

"Message?"

"Yes, sir. It seems the ships were ambushed by a Klingon frigate about twenty minutes ago."

"Ambushed…by a single frigate? That's nothing I would consider top secret, Commander." Everett said, still tending to his bruised fist.

"Yes, sir. Only… it seems that this single Klingon frigate destroyed two of the destroyers."

"What? Impossible." Everett said, his whisper almost betraying itself as a full volume yell.

Moldenhauer continued unfazed. "The Thomas Gage barely made it out alive to get us this message. They suggest sending the fleet to Klef instead."

Things had suddenly gone from bad to worse. "Klef? Klef? That's almost nine parsecs from here!" Everett yelled, no longer caring who could hear him at this point.

"Yes, sir." The lieutenant commanded nodded slowly.

Pearson shook his head slowly as he looked back to the interactive table in the center of the room. "That's almost twenty-seven light-years away, Commander. It'll be nothing short of a miracle if we can all make it there in one piece."

Moldenhauer pursed his lips and sighed heavily. "Yes, sir." Moldenhauer replied dejectedly. Everett, however, could see very little choice in the matter and it enraged him. Instead of giving up two parsecs to the Klingon's by evacuating to Falgor, he was now forced to withdraw the entire 11th Strategic Squadron—or what was left of it—to the Federation held world of Klef, giving up three and a half times that much area in the process. Everett looked to Moldenhauer and dismissed him with a nod of his head. He looked back to the status board and to the blinking triangle that represented the paused communication channel with the Bonhomme Richards. He reached for the icon, pulled his finger back slightly as his throat became dry, then closed his eyes tightly and finally depressed the image.

"Captain Blackwell," Everett began as he cleared his throat. "I'm signaling the fleet that we are withdrawing to…that we are withdrawing from this sector for the time being. The Tracy will forward all required navigational information directly into the fleet's individual navigational computers and should be executed immediately."

"Yes, sir." The tone in his voice was anything but elated. "What about the vessels that are without warp power, sir? How will they rendezvous with us?"

Everett rubbed his face from top to bottom with his left palm as he leaned closer to the table. "However they can, Captain. However they can."

"Respectfully, sir, I request to stay behind and help to evacuate some of the personnel. The Bonhomme Richards has more than enough room for—"

"Denied, Captain."

"But…sir…" William's tone had changed from one of resignation to on of outright astonishment.

"No buts, William. Prepare to evacuate Sector 23-H. I'll assign two destroyers to link up with you to provide cover for the Tracy during our departure." Everett said with finality, closing the channel and then standing upright to straightening his gold tunic. He looked to the left bulkhead, where Moldenhauer had gathered with sever other technicians as they peered into another tactical display. "Commander Moldenhauer, please advise the fleet to make all preparations for getting underway and transmit the coordinates for the rendezvous point to all ships immediately. Priority one."

Moldenhauer turned to face Rear Admiral Everett. He gave a stoic nod and turned to his team to relay the order.

Whatever it takes, Everett thought to himself, no matter how long it takes, I will come back to retake this sector!


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Stardate 4105.19

April, 2253

"You wanted to see me, doctor?"

Doctor Clinton Perera, chief medical officer of the destroyer U.S.S. Portsmouth, looked up from behind his computer terminal at the face of Commander Chet Atwell, his body leaning against the open doorway into the CMO's private office in sickbay. With a quick jerk of his head towards an empty chair, Perera motioned Atwell to join him at his desk.

Commander Atwell gracefully walked to the doctor's l-shaped metal desk and sat down, folding one leg over the other in the process. Doctor Perera sat with one hand to his chin and had the other resting on a stack of multicolored computer memory cartridges. His deep brown eyes were focused on his computer screen, which Atwell could not currently see because it was orientated away from his position. To Chet, sickbay always held a slightly acidic sent that would waft over him as he entered the space. As he sat and looked at the doctor, Chet wondered how the doctor couldn't be affected by the unusual odor.

"I was just going over the final casualty reports, Chet." The doctor said as he continued to stare unblinking at the monitor.

"You could have forwarded them to me on the bridge." Atwell replied with a tinge of honest annoyance in his voice. Perera had served with Atwell for the last three years and they had formed a professional but lose friendship. However, Commander Atwell disliked being called away from the bridge in a crisis situation, even if the crisis itself had momentarily been averted for the time being. There was simply no telling when and if the Klingon's were going to strike again, and Atwell wanted to be on the bridge the moment any news of that nature came in. While his first officer was an extremely competent man, a confrontation with an enemy vessel was something he would have never felt justified to delegate to a subordinate.

Doctor Perera looked away from the screen and into his captain's eyes, but his complexion had an air of distance—as if he were pondering the implications of the atrocities he'd witnessed in the last three hours. Atwell could see the doctor's already thin face grow longer, more somber. It was one thing for a doctor to tend to the dead and the dying during times of peace, but it was quite another thing altogether when those dead and dying came from war.

"I'm sorry," Commander Atwell offered apologetically. "You're right, of course. This is probably something that I should hear from you in person, in the privacy of your office, and not on the bridge for everyone to hear."

Perera feigned a smile. He wasn't in the mood to feel any better about the news he was about to give his captain. "Don't mention it, Chet. We're all on the edge here." His voice was old, strained.

Atwell returned the slight smile, his guard coming down slightly as the adrenaline rush from the last few hours of combat began to ebb away. "What do you have to report, Clinton?"

The doctor reached for the cube shaped computer monitor and slowly turned it to face Atwell. "It's all there, Chet."

Atwell looked at the screen and saw far fewer figures than he had expected. On the monitor, the casualties were listed by order of trauma. The dead crewmembers, totaling five, had their names and causes of death marked in red. There were two seriously wounded crewmen marked in orange text, and the remaining few crewmen on the roster were listed in blue, indicating that they would be returning to duty shortly. Atwell read through the names of the dead and the critically injured aloud, attempting to picture each crewmember's face in his mind's eye. When he got to the final injured crewman his memory had drawn a complete blank. Try as he might, Atwell simply couldn't put a face to the name. He looked to Perera with a puzzled expression on his face. "Lieutenant Desmond?"

Doctor Perera closed his eyes and nodded slowly. "Charles Desmond: Deflector control, junior lieutenant."

Atwell still couldn't picture the man. Desmond? Desmond? Was he tall? Thin? Did he have a heavy vibrato voice or did he emit the sounds of a squeaky mouse? Blonde? Brunette? Human? Alpha Centaurian? Commander Chet Atwell simply couldn't remember.

"I take it, but the look on your face, that you don't recall him?" The doctor asked cautiously.

Chet shook his head and frowned. "Not off the top of my head, no. Deflector control, did you say?"

"I did," Perera said. "And, if I can direct your attention to the cause of his trauma." The doctor pointed his finger at the third column on the small screen.

Chet's face skewed in confusion. "One of the plasma conduits ruptured."

Doctor Perera's tone immediately changed from cordial to almost irate. "Exactly, sir. The same conduit that ruptured two weeks ago and severely burned—"

The image of the accident immediately jumped into Atwell's mind. "Lieutenant Menkowski. Yes. Yes, I remember it well."

Doctor Perera leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "I don't mean to tell you how to do your job, Chet, but whoever you have in engineering that is supposed to be tending to these repairs needs to have his or her head examined."

Commander Atwell cocked his head slightly to the left. "Are you saying there is more to this situation than this single incident?"

"I'm sure of it. Not only could this poor boy lose the use of his left hand over a minor repair that should have been performed properly two weeks ago, one of my own biobeds shut down unexpectedly in the middle of emergency surgery on another crewmen. Granted, the backup power kicked in a few seconds later, but—"

"And you were able to save that particular crewman?" Chet interrupted.

Perera's face became a scowl. "Yes, I did. But that's not the point, captain. The point is that these simple mechanical failures—were they to happen in a crisis situation—could cost lives to be needlessly wasted. They may have already. I'm only able to work with what I have here, and I'm not a detective." Clinton admonished, raising his arms and then gave them a single wave around his office. "I don't know about you, but I wouldn't want that on my conscience."

Chet pursed his lips as the weight of the doctors words settled into his mind. Doctor Perera was right, of course. Atwell would have to check with the chief engineer on these reports. "Someone will be held accountable, doctor. I assure you."

The scowl faded from the doctor's face. He reached up and rubbed his face with the palm of his hand, finally resting his arms back across his chest. "Perhaps you shouldn't just tell me, Chet."

"What do you mean, doc?" He asked. Really, what more can I do about it?

"The boy… Lieutenant Desmond. He's here in sickbay now." Perera said in a soft voice, as if the volume of his words shouldn't be heard beyond the sealed doors of the compartment. "I'm sure he'd like to hear it from his captain that something is going to be done around here, and that these 'accidents' won't happen again." The doctor could see by the look on the commander's face that Atwell was mulling the proposition over. "He has a girlfriend back home, you know. Desmond told me all about it during his initial surgery. They're supposed to get married when he gets back to the research station on Marcos." The Doctor added, hoping it would give the captain an introduction to talk with the young man about.

It was now Atwell's turn to wear a sour expression. "I have over two-hundred and sixty men and women under my command, Doctor. Most—if not all of them—have someone waiting at home…a father, a mother, a husband…a wife, children. I have to turn that revelation off when I step into this uniform, Clinton. And, buy the way, so do you. They signed the same papers you and I did when we joined Starfleet. They took the same oath… and knew what they were getting into just like the both of us—"

Perera could feel the anger welling inside him, but instead of raising his voice he lowered it to a dark whisper. "Don't give me that tired line of bull, Chet. This is a real person we're talking about here, with real dreams and real hopes for the future. He's not just somebody you can reduce down to a number somewhere between crewman number six and crewman number eight. And if you want my personal opinion—"

Chet narrowed his eyes. "I don't, but I know you're going to give it to me anyways."

Doctor Perera took a deep breath and let it out slowly, angered that he was interrupted. It didn't matter to him in the least that this man seated before him was the captain of the ship. Perera was the Portsmouth's chief surgeon, a position that anyone in Starfleet command would take seriously if the two men now seated across from one another had a serious disagreement with the way they each performed their respective functions. "In my opinion, sir, this boy needs to know that his captain remembers his face and something about his background. He's a living, breathing person who has a soul and a conviction about what he's doing here… and it would be nice if the Captain could remember that." The doctor's face was now red as he nearly boiled over with frustration. Please, God, don't let this war take away our humanity.

Commander Atwell straightened in his chair and pursed his lips. In truth, his mind had been made up the instant the doctor had finished speaking. Atwell's voice dropped from irritation to one of resignation. "You're right, of course, doctor. Where is he now?"

"He's in the ward. Bed number one," Perera said, swallowing his anger and trying hard to smile again. "First one on the left. You can't miss him."

"* * * * *"

Commander Atwell rounded the corner that would bring him into the medical ward of sickbay with Doctor Perera close on his heels. There were six biobeds in the ward, all occupied by crewmen who wore colored tunics representing every department on the Portsmouth. Some of them were being attended to by the on duty nurses, while others appeared to be blissfully sleeping and probably sedated by the looks of some of their injuries. To his left, precisely where Doctor Perera said he would be, was Lieutenant Charles Desmond of deflector control.

He was a young man of not more than twenty three years old, lying on his back, with the bed's reflective green sheet pulled up nearly to his chest. Desmond's tunic had been removed prior to surgery and Chet could see the young man's bare chest rise and fall rhythmically, indicating he was relaxing somewhat peacefully. His intense green eyes were open and fixed on a point on the overhead. As Commander Atwell moved closer to the bed, the young man was stirred from whatever he was daydreaming about and attempted to pull himself up to a seated position. Commander Atwell was quick to raise both of his hands, palms out, attempting to stop the boy from doing anything that could aggravate his injuries.

"That's not necessary, Lieutenant Desmond." Chet said. From somewhere behind the commander the doctor cleared his throat. Atwell almost turned his head to look at the doctor but stopped himself in mid turn, admonishing the doctor silently with his glare. Calm down, Clinton. I remember what I said. Atwell approached the bed and was now within a foot of the injured crewman. "How are you feeling, Charles?"

The young man wore a look of shock on his boyish face upon hearing Commander Atwell speak his first name. Charles's eyes went wide and a large smile crept slowly across his face.

"I'm doing well, sir. Doctor Perera has patched me up pretty good." He gave his body a once over and turned his eyes to his commander.

"I heard about the explosion in deflector control, Lieutenant. You must have done some pretty good work down there. We didn't have a single hiccup in the defensive screens during the entire battle."

As if it weren't possible, Desmond's smile grew even larger. "I didn't my best sir…what anyone would have done in my place."

Atwell returned a genuine smile. He could see a much younger Lieutenant Junior-Grade Chet Atwell in the young man's face. "But nobody else did, Charles. You did. Fantastic job."

"Thank you, sir." He said, leaning back against the pillows and looking up to the overhead again, this time with a look of utter satisfaction. "It was pretty amazing, wasn't it?"

Commander Atwell let out a soft laugh. "Let's not get too far ahead of ourselves, son. We don't need your ego inflating too much. Sickbay isn't big enough for it and all of these other patients at the same time."

Desmond smiled faded after a moment and was replaced with an expression of concern. "Is everyone else in control okay? We had three other—"

"Everyone else made it out in time, Charles" Perera replied softly, stepping closer to the two men. "Like the Commander said, all thanks to you."

"And…if I may, sir?" Charles's asked without further hesitation. "Any other casualties? Any damage to the ship?"

Atwell was taken aback at the question. This young lieutenant, Charles Desmond, gave all indications that he could really care less about himself or his own injuries. His first thoughts were of his crew and his ship. Desmond wasn't at all concerned with protocol or rules at this point either, seeing as it was highly irregular for a junior officer to ask ones captain for a damage report. Commander Atwell was equally shocked when he opened his own mouth and spouted off the casualty reports and the ships damage estimates to the injured young man.

Desmond nodded as the captain finished the reports. He looked to the doctor with a look of hopeful apprehension on his face. "So, when can I get back to duty, doc? This bed is killing my backside… and I could sure use a shower."

Atwell looked to the doctor as well, pondering the same question. For some reason that Atwell couldn't quite explain, he wanted—No, that wasn't the right word. I need Lieutenant Desmond back as his post, he thought to himself. This young man gives me every indication that he is a valuable member of this crew. How could I have not noticed him before?

Doctor Perera looked to the captain and then back down to Desmond. "We need to talk about that, son." His voice was laced with the heavy gravity of a situation that Commander Atwell didn't yet fully comprehend.

Desmond could see the look of concerned pass over the doctor's countenance. "Is something wrong, doc? I tell ya, I'm itching to get out of this cast you put me in." As if to exemplify his statement, he withdrew his left arm from under the covers. Atwell could see the man's entire left forearm was covered in a white medical cast. Desmond's fingers, of which only three were fully visible, looked purple and swollen under the hard medical bandage.

"Well," Perera began cautiously. "the plasma burns you've sustain caused some major damaged to the surrounding tissue of your left hand."

Desmond shrugged and held his cast up once more for his own inspection. "Yeah, that much I figured." He said with a roll of eyes.

"But you may not be aware of the extent of the damage, Lieutenant." He replied far more curtly than he intended.

Atwell turned to stand beside the doctor, moving a few feet away from Desmond's bedside in the process. "How bad is it, Clinton?"

Perera continued to look at Desmond for another moment, then looked to the same point in the overhead that Desmond had been staring at, as if he were looking for a better explanation than what he was about to give the two officers. "There is severe damage to both the dermal and sub-dermal layers of the skin. There is also extensive nerve damage and some bone scaring."

"English, doc." Desmond said anxiously. "I'm a big boy. I can take it."

Doctor Perera looked to Atwell, but realized he was about to start speaking about the lieutenant in the third person. He decided to direct his statement to the young man in the bed. "Even when you're fully stabilized and healed, you'll still be looking at a sixty-percent loss of the use of your left hand." Perera said with finality, as if he felt the weight of the words settle from his mind to Desmond's ears.

"Sixty-percent?" Desmond repeated breathlessly. He seemed to recover quickly and smiled again, although the doctor and the captain both knew it was a forced gesture. "Well, that isn't so bad. After all," Charles said as he raised his right hand. "God did give me a spare, you know."

Perera's gaze dropped momentarily to the metallic biobed sheet, then he cocked his head in the direction of the captain. "I think you'd be better off explaining the implications of my statement, Captain."

In that same instant Atwell was reminded what the Starfleet regulations had to say on the matter, and he was obligated to quote them to Lieutenant Desmond… whether any of the officers present in sickbay liked it or not.

"Starfleet regulations state," Atwell said, but then found that he had to clear his throat and hold back a wave of emotion that folded him suddenly. "The regulations sate… and I quote, 'Any officer who has, in the line of duty, and despite the nature of the incident, lost more than fifty-percent of the use of an essential part of his structure… in a time of war, regardless of race, species, or gender, will be deemed unable to adequately discharge the duties for which he or she may or may not have been placed."

Desmond's face twisted in a look of sadness and he looked gravely back to his sheet covering. "I don't know if I want the English translation of that one."

"It means that you'll be relieved of duty, Lieutenant." Perera said with equal seriousness. "Permanently."

Charles's head fell flat against the pillow and his eyes returned to the nondescript point in the overhead. "A medical discharge."

This was the most critical moment in the young man's entire career up to this point, and both Commander Atwell and Doctor Perera knew it. They both understood that they would have to act quickly, before their words began to point the way for this young man's emotions to begin the long, dangerous downward spiral into resentment and depression. "It means you'll be going home, son." Atwell said, instantly not liking the taste of the words as they exited his mouth.

Desmond bolted back up on his elbows faster than either the Doctor or the Commander would have thought possible. "But…sir… I don't want to go home!"

"Take it easy, son." Perera said, reaching out for the tan skin of Desmond's shoulder as he tried to calm the boy's quickly agitated state.

Desmond jerked the doctor's grasp away. "I don't want to take it easy! There must be something you can do, doc?"

"I understand you have a girl waiting back on Marcos II for you, Charlie. Wouldn't you like to get back to her?" Atwell asked, also doing his best to calm Desmond.

The young man looked back at his distastefully. "And do what?"

Atwell feigned a smile. "Marry her, of course."

Charles shook his head slowly at first, but then began to jerk it quickly. "No. No! Not like this. Not like some helpless…" In his state, he couldn't quite find the right word for his condition, and instead held his left arm aloft once more for the captain's inspection. "How am I going to get a ring on this finger? No, sir. If it's all the same to you, I don't want to go through life not knowing what I could have become. You say I got a girl, Captain? Well, that girl and I have a future… and that future has a lot to do with Starfleet. We're hoping to get assigned to Colonial Operations Command after the war. You know… to start a family out near Tellar or something. You know… go some place with research facilities where she and I can make a real difference in the Federation. How am I supposed to do that now… with this?"

The silence in sickbay was deafening. What could Commander Atwell say? Of course, he could say he was sorry for a stupid accident that should never have occurred, and sorry that the future of a crewman was now in shambles for something that could have been easily avoided. Chet knew that an apology, even if it were the most sincere once he possibly could muster, would still be an empty string of words. Fortunately, Doctor Perera was the first to speak.

"Well… there is one possibility."

Atwell turned to face the doctor in confusion. If there existed a chance to help this young man, Atwell suddenly realized that he wanted desperately to explore it. In fact, he was probably as anxious to hear the doctors next few words as Lieutenant Desmond was.

"A possibility?" Desmond's eyes went wide. "Will I be able to stay in the fleet?"

Perera pursed his lips and a hint of a shrug crossed his shoulders. "I believe so, but only time will tell."

Lieutenant Desmond's hands rose from his lap and he motioned for the doctor to keep the information flowing. "Well, spit it out, doc! I'm like the Vulcan."

Both Perera and Atwell's eyes squinted in unison as they looked to one another in confusion. Desmond picked up on it instantly. "You know, the Vulcan? You two never heard that joke before?

Perera smiled softly, inwardly delighted that Desmond's mood had changed for the better. "Afraid not." Commander Atwell shook his head as well.

Desmond smiled gently. "Oh, that's an old one. See, there is this Tellerite with a huge snout and he's sitting with this Human in a bar on Pollux. After a heated discussion the human get's up and walks away all angry like. The human's buddy, a fairly somber looking Vulcan, sits down a moment later and calmly says to the Tellerite: "I don't nose what you told my buddy over there, but I'm all ears."

Chet Atwell only smiled, but Doctor Perera let out a muffled snort of laughter. Desmond smiled in return. "So, you see…I'm like the Vulcan. I'm all ears."

"As am I." Atwell asked, no less excited but far more calmly than Desmond.

Perera could see the hope that glimmer in both of the other men's eyes. "Now, I don't want either of you to get your hopes up. There is a new procedure; it's very radical, but also very promising. It's been successfully performed on the first batch of wounded marines coming back from the front lines."

"Yes?" Atwell asked.

Perera took a deep breath. "A biomechatronic transplant."

"But, those aren't new, Doctor," Atwell injected. "That science has been around since the early 21st century."

Perera stood up slightly taller, as if were behind a podium and addressing a class of raw Starfleet Medical students. "You know your history, Captain. That's true, but not like this new form. To put it in its proper perspective, it makes those early attempts look like tinker toys."

"Explain." Atwell said, to which Desmond nodded slowly.

"Well, early biomechatronic transplants were designed so that the nerves in your body, carrying signals from your brain, would tell the devices how to operate. In most cases, it approximated human movement by somewhere in the neighborhood of seventy-five percent."

"That's a lot better than the sixty-percent you quoted me a few minutes ago." Desmond said with a smile.

"That's true," Perera said "But, most of the human never endings ended up rejecting the electrical and mechanical linkages to their respective artificial counterparts in the prosthetics. It was discovered that, after decades of further research, the human brain needs some form of acknowledgement for the signals its sends out. Without those acknowledgement signals, the nerve endings attached to the prosthetics simply wither away and there is a substantial loss of movement, and the damage becomes irreversible. So, the science was all but abandoned until a few years ago."

"What happened to change it?" Atwell asked intrigued and folded his arms across his chest

"In the 2130's a brilliant scientist named Arik Soong developed a method of simulating never endings inside of a prosthetic device. In theory, with regards to Lieutenant Desmond here, the prosthetic hand would do more than look and act real. It would feel real, too. It would be nearly indistinguishable to him or to anyone else, for that matter."

"I've heard of Soong. Didn't he go insane or something?"

Doctor Perera shrugged. "That's the rumor. Regardless, he gave up on all of his bioresearch a few years later and devoted himself to creating completely artificial life. As far as I know, that research is dead in the water. But, in the last few years, some of the top minds at Starfleet Medical pieced together enough of Soong's early research to make biomechatronics a practical science. They're calling it Bionics and, as I said, it's already been used successfully on combat veterans coming in from the front lines. I haven't heard of anything as complex as a hand or a foot being replicated, but everything from fingers, to ears, to…well, you get the idea. It's all been done."

Desmond's smile grew larger by the second. "And…what kind of mobility will I be looking at?"

The doctor held out a hand to silence the young man. "As I said, nothing this complicated has ever been done before. And, of course, it would mean a complete amputation of your hand, wrist…maybe even a portion of your forearm."

Charles shrugged off the doctor's words as if they hadn't even been spoken. "Like I said, how much mobility? Give me the conservative estimate, doc."

Perera sighed heavily, then pondered over all of the material he'd read coming in from Starfleet Medical, along with his own vast knowledge of human anatomy, and then threw in some trigonometry and geometry into his calculations for good measure. "If the operation were a complete and total success, I'd say you'll have about ninety-five percent mobility."

"And it would feel like a real hand?" Charlie asked in stunned disbelief.

"Fell, look, and operate. In fact, it might even be better in some respects than the one you were born with. Of course, I wouldn't use that as a reason to volunteer for this kind of operation. And, it would have to be completely voluntary. Again, it's all highly theoretical until the operation is sanctioned by Starfleet Medical and, of course, myself and Commander Atwell."

Desmond looked to Commander Atwell. "Sir, I want to feel my wedding ring on my finger. I want to hold my girl's hand and feel its warmth. And…and I want to stay onboard for as long as it takes to win this war and get back to Marcos."

Atwell nodded slowly. He reached out and put a soothing hand to Charlie's shoulder. "Rest easy, son. You've earned it. The doctor and I will talk it over and we'll see what kind of options we can come up with."

"Thank you, sir. Thank you both." Desmond said as he leaned his head back on the pillow, exhausted from the highs and lows of their conversation.

Doctor Perera reached for a hypospray and gave Charles a mild sedative that put him to sleep within seconds. He and Commander Atwell exchanged worried glances, then turned together and left the ward.


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Stardate 4106.09

June, 2253

On the bridge of the Loknar-class frigate U.S.S. Vernol, Captain Sogon slowly paced back and forth on the raised deck behind his command chair. While the Vulcan was far too disciplined to ever admit that he felt fear about his current assignment, he did have an undeniable sense of uneasiness about him. It was so prevalent, in fact, that the entire bridge crew could almost feel it. It hung in the air like a wolf stalking its prey on the bridge, as if one were to look up at any given time they could see it lurking near their individual stations. If any of the officers on the bridge—or the entire ship, for that matter—had one word on their minds to describe their current position, that word would be 'nervous'.

The Vernol, along with two other Loknar's—the U.S.S. Tryla and the U.S.S. Stockholm—were on patrol duty near the Lasur Funop system, which lay directly between Starbase 22 and Starbase 23, and only six parsecs from the remains of the abandoned Arcanis IV research outpost, the site of the massacre that had been the catalyst for this entire war. The three vessels of the 22nd Strike Squadron were far too close to the Klingon Neutral Zone for anyone liking. Sogon himself well understood the feelings of trepidation that the men and women under his command felt, even though his own outward appearance had never betrayed his own feelings on the matter… until he realized that he was pacing.

As everyone in the quadrant knew, Vulcan's were well known for their pacifism and general disdain for anything combat related. Only when the overwhelming mating urges brought upon by pon-farr surfaced in them did they ever feel a general need to be aggressive. Sogon's time had come and gone last year, and he had taken great pains to ensure that as few crewmen knew as possible. Captain Sogon was normally the picture of command presence on the bridge of the frigate that he had successfully command for the last three years. That was until his recent orders from Starfleet Command had brought him within throwing distance of the Klingon Empire. It is quite logical, he thought to himself, to be cautious in situations such as this. But, it is also quite illogical to be concerned about events that have not yet begun to unfold before you. Yes, that sounded right.

He began a practiced form of meditation there on the bridge, and within moments his body was more at peace with his surroundings. He found that he had even stopped pacing and was now facing the communications officer. The young woman turned from her station and looked to her captain, waiting with patience for a command from the Vulcan who now stood within half a meter and was hovering over her station.

Sogon placed his hands together behind his back and stood at the military position of parade rest. "Lieutenant, please send a request to the Tryla and the Stockholm requesting a status update on the condition of their vessels."

The young human woman, Sophia Baden, had been recently promoted to full lieutenant at the request of the captain. He had found her work to be 'sufficiently commendable', which to Sophia's ears meant that the Vulcan thought very highly of her abilities. Starfleet Command, it seemed, had agreed and the promotion from lieutenant junior grade to her current rank had been rushed through the chain of command with the utmost efficiency. She had seemingly gone from a communications analyst to the primary bridge communications officer overnight. The last thing she wanted to do now was endanger her position and disappoint her commanding officer.

"Is there anything specific you'd like me to send to either of the ships, sir?" She asked with all of the confidence she could muster—which to her surprise was considerable.

"Indeed, Lieutenant." Sogon said with a series of short nods. "Curious. You have never made such a request before when I've asked you to contact the other vessels. While I agree that there is more to my query than the initial request, I would like to know how you have come to the conclusion that I required it."

Sophia's pale cheeks reddened, which hadn't gone unnoticed by the captain. He had embarrassed her, and it was something he would have to consider the next time he engaged in such conversation with her. While his tenure onboard the Vernol had put him in contact with a great many number of humans, he was still unaccustomed to all of the nuances that their emotional immaturity brought about. He filed the thought away in his mind, deciding to bring the topic up with the young woman the next time the two officers were off duty.

"To be honest, sir, it just… seemed like there was something more you needed to say after your request." He deep green eyes were fixed on the Vulcan.

Sogon nodded again. "A wise observation, Lieutenant. I see that my choice in command personnel has not been an illogical one," he said. Sophia could almost swear that the very corners of his mouth twitched upwards into a smile for a brief second. However, she would have never embarrassed the captain by offering her own genuine delight at his statement. "For a moment, I thought that your Starfleet record was inaccurate."

"Oh," Her head tilted back in genuine curiosity. "How is that, sir?"

"When looking over your records, I failed to notice a high degree of extra sensory perception."

She narrowed her eyes and removed a stray lock of blonde hair that had fallen in front of her face. "Extra sensory perception, sir?"

Sogon cast his black eyes to the deck for a moment as if he was searching for the correct answer—and one that would do no further embarrassment to the young officer. "I believe you humans call it 'mind reading'."

If he had been a human captain, Lieutenant Baden would surely have broken out in a fit of laughter. She had never known the captain to make a joke before, and this was certainly one worthy of the Vulcan history books. Nonetheless, the broad smile that she felt on the inside of her being was betrayed only by the slightest form of itself on her physical face. "Yes, sir. Of course," she nodded approvingly. "What further information do you require from the rest of the group?"

"At last report, the Stockholm was experiencing a minor power fluctuation in their port warp nacelle. I wish to know the outcome of the diagnostics they have performed, as well as any repairs that they feel may be necessary to correct the problem. Also, the first officer of the Tryla had reported to sickbay due to an adverse reaction to something that he was served in the ship's galley. I wish to know how he is… feeling."

Sophia entered the squadron hailing frequency into the computer and relayed Captain Sogon's requests to the two ships. When she finished she signed off of the channel and turned back to her captain, who was still hovering silently over her station. Sophia took it as an invitation to strike up a conversation. It was good to try and talk to your captain like a real person… isn't it? I hope I don't stick my foot in my mouth.

"About the first officer on the Tryla, sir?"

He looked at her as if she had a second head growing from her shoulder. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

Open mouth, insert size six boot. Oh well. I might as well go through with it. "Well sir, this may be a bit out of protocol, but I was wondering… is he—"

"You wish to know the reason for my request about his health?" Sogon asked before Sophia could finish her sentence.

She dropped her gaze coyly. "Yes, sir."

"You are wondering if my request was personal, or if it was obligated by his status as first officer."

He shoulders drooped. "Yes, sir."

Sogon took in a deep breath, slowly exhaled it through his hooked nose, and looked to the main view screen. The stars were beautiful out here, but he longed for the familiar constellations as seen from the surface of his home world. "In this case, Lieutenant, it is some of both. As first officer, Commander Shuster has the responsibility of assuming command of the Tryla if anything should befall her captain. If we are engaged in a combat situation, he will be required to be on the bridge at all times. If there is a change in the command structure of the Tryla due to his illness, I wish to be informed on who will assume his position," He turned his attention from the slowly drifting star field on screen back to the deep green eyes of the communications officer. "As far as the personal portion of my message, let us agree that he and I are old acquaintances… as you humans would say."

Sophia got the distinct impression that the captain had almost used the word 'friend' to describe his relationship with the Tryla's first officer. After all, the look on Captain Sogon's face was one of general concern for someone he had formed a level of respect for. She knew the look well, because she had gotten in from the captain from time to time about her own well being.

Sophia had been, what most young officers in Starfleet would call, a hard-charger ever since she had left the Academy two years before. She had done nothing but concentrate on her duties as an officer since the day she left school, passing up opportunities to form new friends and 'companionship bonds', as the captain would say, along the way. Sogon felt that every good officer should not be 'strictly by-the-book' in all situations, and that Starfleet Academy did it's best to produce officers that were very even keel when it came to having both professional and personal relationships—and that Sophia would do well to remember that. His concern for her was genuine, and she knew and respected it, but it still wasn't easy for her to accept and follow the recommendation.

There was also something in the captain's words that she couldn't quite put a finger on. He had almost hinted at the fact that she was quite attractive or, at the very least, was attractive to him. She had giddily wondered briefly, after that conversation, about the ship-wide scandal that would ensue if a junior lieutenant was to be the proverbial apple of the captain's eye. In the end, however, she had dropped the suggestions of the hints, chalking her own feelings up to nervousness in the presence of a senior officer. Sogon, likewise, had made his own decision that no further discussion on her personal acquaintances was warranted, since Sophia was—by all accounts—turning into a fine officer, regardless of her social status on the ship.

A series of small beeps came across the communications receiver in her ear, indicating that one of the ships in the squadron was attempting to communicate with the Vernol. Sophia reach out fingers tipped with bright red fingernails and entered the proper authorization code into the communications terminal. On the screen before her, the Tryla's recognition signal was displayed in glowing lime-green numbers. "Sir, there is an incoming message from the Tryla. They are requesting visual communications."

"Very good, Lieutenant," Sogon unclasped his hands and returned to the command chair. "Open the channel and put the Tryla on the viewer, please."

A moment later the three dimension star field image wavered, then reformed to show the bridge of the U.S.S. Tryla, with Commander Lance Pelish seated in his command chair. His form took up the center portion of the screen, and no other bridge officers could be seen behind or around him. Pelish, a human of forty-one years old, looked much younger than his years showed. His light brown hair was combed neatly atop his head and his piercing grey eyes shown with wisdom and sense of duty that can only come from years of being in command of people. "Greeting, Captain Sogon," Pelish said with a quick nod of his head.

"And to you as well, Captain Pelish," Sogon said with the same quick nod. "It has been some time since you last reported in, Captain."

Pelish shifted in his seat. Sogon wasn't sure if Commander Pelish had become uneasy over the statement the Vulcan had just made, but he got the distinct impression that he had. In Sogon's experience with humans, such a gesture was usually a sign that the particular human was nervous or, at the very least, slightly uncomfortable. How is it that I can know so much about humans, yet still fail to understand their nuances time and again? I must endeavor to try harder.

"I didn't want to send an official report unless my status had changed." Pelish's words were not spoken as confidently as Sogon had hoped.

With a raised eyebrow, Sogon asked "And you are saying, then, that it has not?"

"The ship is operating at nearly one-hundred and five percent efficiency, as my last report stipulated, sir." Pelish replied flatly.

"Then, may I query about the status of Commander Shuster?"

"The Commander had to undergo some minor surgery, but—"

"Captain Pelish," Sogon said curtly and then stood up from his command chair. "Such an action should have been reported to me immediately."

Pelish's head cocked back slightly at the obvious tone change in the Vulcan's voice. "I didn't feel—" he began apologetically, but Sogon cut him off.

"Captain Pelish, your feelings on the matter are irrelevant. Anything that affects the command roster on your ship should be reported to your superior officer, immediately. That means me, Commander. It is illogical for you to withhold that information based solely on your feelings on the matter."

Pelish pursed his lips. It had been quite some time since he'd been dressed down, especially from a captain who was just barely his senior officer. His first instinct was to lash back at the pointy eared Vulcan, but the professionalism he had learned in his many years in Starfleet compelled him to formulate a different strategy. Besides, Pelish knew what the real heart of the matter was, and he sympathized with the Vulcan. Pelish knew—as did most—that Vulcan's were not totally devoid of emotions and feelings. Sogon was mostly upset because Pelish had failed to report that the Vulcan's friend was undergoing a routine surgery. At least I hope that's what it is.

Pelish decided to play that card and see where it got him. He stared at the lean face of the Vulcan captain sitting in his command chair and began to speak softly, using his tone convey his apologies, also knowing full well it was going to cost Pelish a glance or two from the command officers on his own bridge. "You're right of course, Captain. I should have informed you."

Sogon slowly sat back into his chair and regained his composure. He closed his eyes momentarily as he regained his mental focus and then steeped his fingers against his gold command tunic. "There is no need for all of that, Captain. I… understand your motives regarding this matter, however unorthodox they might have been."

Pelish smiled, as much to himself as to the stoic Vulcan on the screen. Sogon had managed to save Pelish some embarrassment, and Pelish knew that he would have to return the favor at some point. "Commander Shuster should be returning to duty within the next six hours, Captain Sogon."

"Then I trust that his surgery went well."

Lance smirked. "It did. I can send you over the complete report on the surgery."

Sogon eyes turned from the screen and focused on something distant, something beyond the confines of the bridge of the frigate Vernol before he replied. He nodded softly and then set his gaze back on the storm cloud grey eyes of Pelish's image. "That would be acceptable, Captain."

"* * * * *"

"Did you finally get that sensor problem fixed yet?" The captain nearly yelled into the communications microphone on the armrest of his command chair.

The voice of the chief engineer crackled back over the speaker, "Almost got it, sir. Give me a minute to lock it down."

Commander Benjamin Marcus Stringfield was leaning over the armrest of his command chair, his face close to the speaker on the chair. The Stockholm had been his first official command since he had left the executive officer position onboard the Detroyat-class destroyer U.S.S. Elizabeth three months ago. While it was perfectly normal for a new commanding officer to have some unspoken reservations about his new crew, Stringfield currently had more pressing concerns on his mind than how he felt about them. He did, after all, have a Vulcan captain in overall command of the 22nd Strike Squadron to worry about. If Ben ever wanted to make it to the rank of Captain himself, he'd do well to try and impress the Vulcan as much as he could. He was fairly certain that his performance thus far had been fine—almost exemplary—and it would have garnished him a fine Officer Efficiency Rating from the Vulcan.

That was until the sensor problem on the Stockholm had reared its ugly head, of course. What had started as a minor glitch in one of the forward sensor pallets had become something of a gremlin which was now running rampant through the entire computer processor systems. Now the Vulcan was requesting a status update and, for the first time in years, Ben found himself at a loss for words. How was he going to explain to Captain Sogon that—not only was the problem not fixed—it had only barely been isolated? The last thing Ben wanted to do was look incompetent in the face of the sensor group commander, second only to having his crew look equally inept. Ben's mind saw the horror of his OE Rating being flushed down the toilet in an agonizingly slowly spiral.

The chief engineer had, after an hour and a half of diagnosis, narrowed the problem down to something in the deflector control main computer subprocessor. Lieutenant Commander Chuck Weinhard had assured Commander Stringfield that everything computer on the bridge was functioning well within specifications, and that the connections that linked the science station and helm console to the main computers on deck seven were also in perfect order. "The problem has to be in deflector control", he has said before jogging into the bridge's single turbolift and down to deck six. Now, thirty minutes later, Chuck was stating that he needed an additional minute. To Ben, however, it felt like time without end. He couldn't delay his report to Captain Sogon any longer and silently offered a prayer that the engineering chief would get everything in order in the next sixty seconds.

"Alright, sir," the chiefs voice rang uneasily though the speaker. "Try the long-range sensors one more time."

Ben turned to the young science officer, Kristin Ming, and made the request. "Lieutenant, orientate the long-range sensors at coordinates three-two-two mark seven and set them to full power. Tell me if that blasted ghost image is still there."

The young woman turned in her chair, her short black hair following her head's movement by a fraction of a second, and efficiently began inputting the commands into the main computer. A moment later she smiled to herself and then triumphantly turned her attention back to the captain. "The image is now gone, sir."

Ben smiled back at her, then pushed the white switch on the arms of his chair to reconnect his intercom with deflector control. "Well done, Chuck. It looks like you got that bug off of our windshield."

"I'm sorry? Off of our what, skipper?"

Ben smiled gently as he shook his head at the speaker. "Never mind, Commander. Good job on getting that taken care of. Report back to engineering when you're done tidying up down there in deflector control."

"Sir," Lieutenant Ming queried, pulling Commander Stringfield's attention from his conversation with the chief engineer. "I have another signal coming in from the long-range sensors."

Ben's eyebrows furrowed together and his shoulders immediately sagged. He brought his palm to his face and whipped his chin. "I thought you said that spectral image was gone, Lieutenant."

She worked her controls franticly. When one of the controls didn't immediately respond to her input, she slammed her palm down forcibly on the offending button, producing a large 'smack' sound that reverberated off of the bridge walls. While his tenure on the ship had been brief so far, he hopped that this woman wasn't this frantic all of the time. It just wouldn't do to have someone on the bridge who would lose their collective 'cool' every time something didn't go their way. "It is gone, sir. I'm no longer reading the phantom anomaly to our port side, but I am picking up a signal directly abeam of our current heading."

Commander Stringfield pondered this over for a moment before he hummed to himself. "I'm sure if it was something dangerous the Vernol would have picked it up as well."

"That may be true, sir," she said with an air of concern. "But, with all of the tinkering and adjusting we did to try and isolate the sensor ghost we were initially receiving, I believe we've unintentionally boosted the accuracy of the long-range sensors by a factor of one-point-five."

"So," Ben let the word draw out for a few seconds as he got up from his chair and walked to stand beside the young human female. "Has the resolution also increased, or just the range?"

Kristen's thin eyelids went wide for a moment, revealing the pupil less black of her irises. "I believe both, sir."

"If that's the case, then get me an exact reading on what's out there." He replied nervously. Is this for real? Is there something out there that only we can see?

Ming pressed some of her control carefully… and smacked a few others rather harshly. On the third impact of her palm against an offending resolution enhancer toggle, she looked sheepishly to Ben, who only returned a look of bewilderment. "Sensor signal coming back now, sir."

He instinctively stepped back from the Lieutenant, somehow convinced that he would be the next target of a wild backhand. "What do we have, Lieutenant?"

Ming's head jerked back into the blue light of the sensor hood. She pulled back briefly in shock, then placed her eyes back into the scanner.

Ben held his hands aloft in the direction of the science officer. "Well… speak up, Ming. What's out there?"

She turned from the sensor display, looked off in the distance behind Commander Stringfield then moved her eye's to his. "Sensors are picking up two Klingon heavy cruisers."

Ben's jerked his head back and his eyes went wide in shock. He glanced at her skeptically, wondering how sure the woman was of the readings she was getting. "How…umm…are the readings… verified?"

"Sir, I can tell you that not only are there two cruisers out there, but that their shields are down and they are proceeding at one-quarter impulse."

It took only a moment for the words to register in Ben's mind. "They don't know we're here." Ming only smiled at his words. "How far away? I mean…distance to target?" Ben swallowed hard.

Kristin shook her head in disbelief. "Sir, I don't know how this is possible, but the computer is stating that the ships are nearly a sector away."

Ben stood up straight, relaxing somewhat when he heard the news. "Then it has to be a mistake, Lieutenant. No Federation sensors are this accurate at that distance."

"I would tend to agree, sir, but… don't you think we should still report it… to Captain Sogon."

Ben considered this and it weighed on him heavily. "And if we're wrong… if this is another glitch—"

"It's your call, sir." She said, then returned her eyes to the sensor and began confirming the information that was being displayed. There, shining brightly on her sensor display, was the distinctive outline of two Klingon medium cruisers, traveling at one-quarter impulse power, and blissfully unaware that they would soon be under the scrutiny of a trio of hungry Starfleet frigates.

"* * * * *"

"Sir," Sophia Baden's high pitch voice came from behind the captain. "There is a priority message coming in from the Stockholm."

"Open a channel, Lieutenant."

"Channel open, sir. Audio only.

"Captain Pelish—" Sogon started, but Pelish silenced him with a raised hand.

"I heard, Captain. I'll get the first officer's medical report over to you within the hour. Tryla, out." Pelish's image faded from the screen and was replaced by the endless star filed in front of the squadron.

"Lieutenant Baden," he said, turning in his chair to face the communications officer and pondered his next words for a brief instant. "I'll take the Stockholm's message in my quarters. Please send the medical report from the Tryla down as soon as you receive it."

He's taking a priority one message… in his quarters? That's odd. She shook the thought away as quickly as it had appeared. "Yes, sir."

"Lieutenant Commander Trebon," Sogon said to the tall, dark skinned female first officer. "Please assume command in my absence. I will return shortly."

Aerial Trebon, her long black hair curled tightly above her head, stood up from the auxiliary environmental control substation where she had been monitoring some changes that were being made to the life support systems in engineering. The Cygnian woman nodded curtly at her captain, as was her usual custom when receiving his orders. She was an immensely strong woman and one of few words. However, her strength was only equaled by her wisdom, so that when she did choose to voice her thoughts, everyone in the vicinity would go silent and listen intently.

Sogon vacated the command seat and walked briskly towards the aft turbolift. Lieutenant Commander Trebon stepped onto the command deck as the Vulcan departed, turned the captain's seat as she approached it, and glided into its cool welcoming softness. As the sound of the leather scrunching under her backside subsided, Aerial was overcome with a need to look to Sophia. Perhaps it was her slight empathic nature, or perhaps it was the fact that she sympathized with the young communications officer. Aerial herself was still a fairly new addition to the crew of the Vernol, and she too wanted to make a favorable impression on the stoic captain. He bright eyes followed Sophia's gaze until it landed on the empty turbolift alcove. Sophia wore an expression on her face, but the Cygnian woman now seated in the command chair was hard pressed to decipher it. Lieutenant Baden averted her gaze from the last place Captain Sogon had stood and it immediately locked with Commander Trebon's lime green eyes. The two women shared a brief but uncomfortable smile before they returned to their duties.


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

"This is Captain Sogon. I'm sorry for the delay, Commander Stringfield. I was detained. I understand that you now wish to have a secure visual channel open. It is done. Please go ahead with your message."

Sogon had seated himself at the computer terminal behind the irregularly shaped desk in the lounge area of his personal quarters. He folded his hands and placed them on the cold tabletop before him, then leaned back in the black leather padding of the chair as the image of Commander Stringfield appeared on the screen. Sogon noticed with concern that the Commander appeared somewhat frustrated, and not a little nervous, before he began to speak.

"Captain Sogon, my science officer has picked up several Klingon ships in the sector directly ahead of us."

Sogon remained motionless, not even raising an eyebrow—which was the customary Vulcan response when receiving particularly conflicting information. "The sensors on the Vernol show nothing, Commander," He replied calmly. "Are you sure that your equipment is functioning normally?"

"Quite sure, sir."

"I understand that your systems were reporting several sensor anomalies over the last three point-four hours. Could this be another of those anomalies?"

"As I said, Captain, I'm quite sure this is for real."

"That statement is illogical, Commander. Whether the sensor signals you are receiving are that of Klingon vessels or if they are the result of an unforeseen malfunction in your equipment, it is 'real' either way."

Ben pursed his lips tightly as he fought down the urge to lash out at the inaction of the Vulcan captain. Stringfield had taken the chance of sending out the priority-one communication, despite the fact that Sogon had taken his own sweet time in responding to it. Ben had also seen fit to verify his sensor contacts and had informed the squadron commander of his findings… all per Starfleet regulations. What in blazes is he waiting for?

"So, Captain Sogon? What are we going to do about it?" Stringfield finally managed to expel through his thin lips.

Sogon unclasped his fingers and placed his palms flat against one another, then brought his index fingers to his lips as he considered the situation. "We will weigh all of the facts, Commander. Then we will act accordingly. Please send my science officer all of the information that you have obtained on these contacts. I will analyze the information on the Vernol and, if it is warranted, formulate a plan of action."

Stringfield let out an exasperated sigh. "It may be too late to act, sir, once you've fully analyzed all of the information. The Klingons don't know—"

"The Klingons may or may not even be there, Commander. We simply do not know. Who is to say that, if there are in fact Klingons present, you haven't underestimated their numbers? I am not willing to take this entire squadron into a possible conflict when there is an excessive amount of unknown variables in the equation."

"But we've been ordered to eliminate any threat, real or perceived, on this patrol route. I don't dispute my science officer's report, Captain."

"But, Commander… I do. Please transmit the required information to the Vernol immediately. Captain Sogon, out."

The image of the Vulcan captain disappeared from the screen on the bridge of the frigate Stockholm, and it wasn't a moment too soon. Stringfield slapped his right armrest in frustration. "Damned arrogant son of a—," he began under his breath, and then stopped himself before he'd say something he might later regret. Everyone on the bridge had been watching the exchange of words between the two officers, and it simply wouldn't do to insult another commanding officer in plain view of so many other crewmen—no matter how much the Vulcan deserved it.

Ben Stringfield looked over to Kristin Ming, who had been seated calmly at the science officer's station during his exchange with Sogon. He stood up from his chair, then walked over and leaned against the hand rail that separated the bridge's upper and lower decks. "Don't worry, Kris," The Commander began in a soft tone. "I'm sure it's nothing personal. I have every confidence in your abilities."

Lieutenant Ming, her black hair and matching eyes sparkling in the glow of the bridge's overhead lighting, smiled at her commanding officer in response. "Thank you, sir."

Stringfield returned the smile. "Of course, Lieutenant. Now, let's get that sensor information over to the Vernol so we can get on with our mission. Hopefully Sogon can sift through the data before the Klingon's realize that we're here.

"* * * * *"

"Telemetry information is coming up now, Captain."

Sogon turned towards the voice that had just spoken and faced Lieutenant Commander Kenton Stegmann, the Vernol's extremely adept science officer. Stegmann, born and raised on Earth, had been part of a long and proud tradition of men and women from his family serving in the scientific community. Kenton's father, Thomas, was currently serving as deputy director of medical sciences on the Exo, a full Federation member world in the Gamma Dinara system. Kenton's brother, Isaac, along with his younger sister Gena, were the leading members of a research team on Starbase 4 and had just published their second joint paper. Captain Sogon had found Stegmann's record, as well as the achievements of his family, to be more than adequate indications of his qualifications to be the lead science officer for the squadron.

"Very well, Commander," Sogon said with a raised eyebrow. "What has the ships computer ascertained?"

Stegmann reached across the gloss black surface of the ship's library computer portion of his station and pressed the command functions that would bring the captain's requested information up on the science officer's display. After pushing two silver toggles switches forward the computer began to display a rhythmic pulsation of lights indicating that it was deciphering the information into a visual readout. After another moment, a blank screen to the left of the library computer display light up with green text that was being printed line-by-line. Stegmann read out the report as it was shown on the screen.

"Sir, the ships computer has verified the sensor readings from the Stockholm. There are two Klingon heavy cruisers directly ahead of us, right in the center of the Lasur Funop system."

Sogon didn't need to ask if there might have been an error in the Vernol's own sensors. Once the 'glitch' that had miraculously boosted the Stockholm's sensors had been isolated, Captain Sogon had ordered his own chief engineer to duplicate those same settings on the Vernol, as well as the Tryla, thus giving his entire squadron a decisive tactical advantage over anything that was at Lasur Funop. It now seemed as though that advantage would have to be pressed.

"Bring up the tactical display on the main viewer, Mr. Stegmann."

The image of the passing stars being displayed on the main viewer wavered briefly in a three dimensional haze and was replaced by a top-down view of the five planets of the Lasur Funop system. The primary star, a blue-white Class-B hydrogen burning star named Lasur, dominated the center of the display on the screen. The first two planets out from the star were gas giants of various sizes, one comprised mostly of methane, while the other of mostly helium. The third planet, Lasur Furnop, was the only Class-M planet in the system. With a population of two million Tellarites, the planet was used by three different sectors of their government. The first sector, the scientific branch, was currently using the unique properties of the Lasur star to study the effects of prolonged radiation exposure to starship shielding. The second branch, Tellar Trade and Commerce, had set up a viable trading outpost on the planets south-western hemisphere. Mostly trading in flame gems, glow water, and the occasional tribble, the port had mostly made a name for itself when it came to the used space vessel market. Lasur Funop boasted some of the finest used vessels in this sector, not to mention the entire quadrant. The third sector of government to utilize the planet was the Tellar Mining Confederation. There were several veins of gold, iron, salt, and copper that had been discovered within the last decade, and the Tellarite government had wasted little time in setting up operations to remove the minerals that were practically right on the surface of the planet for the taking.

Captain Sogon studied the image of the red and white glowing world of Lasur Funop for a long moment, taking into account all of the available facts, and then deducing the proper strategy for the coming battle. There was definitely a battle coming, and it would be up to Sogon himself as to how that battle would commence. After a few more moments of silence the first officer spoke up from behind the captain.

"So," Aerial Trebon said as she studied the image and crossed her arms across her chest. "What are our options, sir?"

Sogon raised his left eyebrow, nodded slowly, then turned to her. "We have several options available to us, Commander. First, we can open a hailing frequency to the Klingons and order them to leave the system."

She scoffed and half smiled. "Something tells me that they wouldn't listen."

"Indeed, it is highly unlikely they would. This leads us to our second option," he said as he slid into the command chair. "We can send a priority one signal to sector command and request assistance with the Klingons."

The helmsman and the navigator, both human males in their mid-twenties turned to one another, a grave look of apprehension on their face. Sogon noticed the look without hesitation. "Mr. Shinkle," he asked of the helmsman. "You wish to say something?"

Ted Shinkle, junior lieutenant, swallowed hard as he formulated the right words in his brain before he had a chance to spit them out all at once and trip over them. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I think… that is, I believe that the three frigates in our squadron are evenly matched to face off against two Klingon ships."

"Two heavily armed and quite dangerous D-7 heavy cruisers to be exact, Lieutenant."

Shinkle casually shrugged. "It's a fair fight, sir, either way we look at it, sir. The numbers don't lie."

"Indeed, they do not," Sogon nodded. "But we need more than numerical equality with our adversaries. We need superiority."

"If we see them and they can't see us," Lieutenant Cody Foos, ship's helmsman, interjected. "Then I'd say we have the numerical advantage."

"Correction, Lieutenant: we have the tactical advantage." Sogon said as he regarded the young officer. "But, you are essentially without error in your analysis."

"Since the floor is open and everyone seems to be throwing out their own advice, I wonder if I might have a say in it?" came the voice of the chief engineer from behind the captain.

"By all means, Mr. Preston."

The round engineer, his dark hair cut unusually short and flat atop the crown of his head, looked squarely at the captain. "It all comes down to this: Those Klingon devil's may be bigger and have longer teeth, but our frigates are more maneuverable. There's no doubt about it."

"And I had none, I assure you," Sogon added. He turned in his chair to face Aerial Trebon. "Compiling all of the information that's been presented here, Commander, what do you suggest we do?"

As she stood next to the captain she could feel the eyes of each of the officers on bridge boring into her. Her bright eyes moved away from the captain and she looked to each of the officers present, each of them silently screaming their own courses of action at her. It didn't take her long to formulate her own plan, and she knew it was the only one that met all of the requirements of the advice of her fellow officers.

"I suggest we go to yellow alert. We should put all of our defensive systems online, and keep our offensive systems on hot standby."

Sogon raised an eyebrow once again. "Standby? For what purpose?"

"We need to funnel as much power into the propulsion systems as we can. The weapons will take away from that power. We need to use our speed to our advantage, and press that advantage as long as we can."

"You're suggesting a hit and run strategy, then?" Engineer Preston asked in dismay.

"No. A hit and destroy one, Chief." She corrected. "Captain, I say we warp into the system, immediately drop to sub-light when we're within weapons range of the Klingon's, then open fire with everything we have."

"Even at full power their shields wouldn't last long against that kind of power." Foos added approvingly.

Sogon nodded his approval at her plan. "But the calculations would have to be more than exact, Commander. They would have to be—"

"Perfect." Sophia Baden chimed in meekly, then blushed slightly when she felt the gazes of the entire bridge fall on her.

Trebon looked to Sogon. "I don't think that would be a problem for us, sir."

He looked back to the view screen at the tactical image of the Lasur system. Due to the nature of the orbits of the two gas giants, Sogon had surmised that if he could thread the 22nd Strike Squadron between the two bodies, which were now at their closest point in the their respective orbits around the star, he could avoid detection until the last possible second. His black eyes shifted to left and met Lieutenant Commander Aerial Trebon's unflinching stare. "A logical plan, Commander. Well done. Let us proceed."

"* * * * *"

On the forward view screen of the Tryla was the glowing image of the planet Lasur Funop. While Captain Sogon's frigate squadron was still some distance away, the enhanced long-range sensors made obtaining a high resolution image of the planetoid all the more easier. The large green and yellow world turned slowly in all its splendor and beauty, but Commander Lance Pelish knew that, on the far side of the planet, there was a dangerous Klingon threat that the Federation forces were about to engage. He only hoped—as did the rest of the squadron—that the Klingon still hadn't noticed their presence near the planets.

Pelish wasn't at all content about this plan. There was something tugging at the corners of his consciousness that told him over and over that Vulcan's—well known for their pacifism—were ill-suited to form battle strategies, let alone command starships. There were some races that were disposed to the duty of command. Vulcan's, in his mind, we're not. They were far more suited to scientific endeavors. He felt it simply wasn't in their character to lead, that the black-and-white logic of their disposition made important decisions far more one-sided than they really were

Besides, Pelish had his own personal reasons for not trusting Captain Sogon. While Pelish was never one to give himself into vague or unsubstantiated rumors, he had only to reference the message that he had personally received from Starfleet Intelligence two weeks ago. Pelish had filed thier contents away in his mental filing cabinet, then he had completely destroyed all of the physical and electronical traces of the messages—just as he had been ordered. Pelish had relegated himself to doing as he had been instructed: He would follow Sogon's orders and try not to create too many waves that could possibly give away Pelish's covert observations of the Vulcan.

Commander Pelish had eagerly accepted the task he had been assigned from Intelligence. He had seen it as one step closer to getting out of the command chair of this starship and into a more politically forward posting. He looked down at the shimmering gold braids on the cuff of his uniform tunic and rubbed them softly, mentally wishing they would melt together to form into the thick single braid that would denote his rank as Commodore—something he was convinced would be bestowed upon him once this mission was complete. He looked once again to Lasur Funop and imagined, low in its atmosphere, a gleaming Starbase full of power and prestige, a beacon of power and authority in this sector, with himself seated as its commanding officer.

"Sir," Lieutenant Alward spoke up from the communications station. "Captain Sogon is signaling. He's requesting that we prepare to get underway in the next few moments."

Pelish, his eyes still leveled in a half daydream state at the image of the swirling planet before him, leaned back in his chair reflectively. He gave the visage a self-indulgent smile and then tilted his head over his right shoulder. "Signal him that we are standing by, Lieutenant. Helmsman, signal yellow alert. Raise all defensive screens and stand by to arm lasers and photon torpedoes."

"Aye, sir." Both of the officers replied in unison.

On the bridge of the Tryla, the men and women of Starfleet prepared themselves, mentally and physically, for the coming engagement. They checked and rechecked their equipment, made preparations for emergency procedures that they hoped they would never have to initiate, and said silent prayers in hopes they would make it out of the conflict in one piece.

"* * * * *"

Just as the plan had been rehearsed in computer simulations, the 22nd Strike Squadron formed into a V-formation, with the Vernol in the lead and the Stockholm and the Tryla on her port and starboard sides respectively. When Pelish and Stringfield had signaled that they were ready, Sogon gave the order to engage their engines, and all three vessels jumped to warp-one in unison.

The Locknar-class frigates, their warp nacelles swept up and away from the tops of their saucer sections, swooped into the Lasur system with lightning efficiency. Within seconds of reaching warp velocity, the vessels were already in the system and nearing Lasur Funop. The Federation forces had targeted the southern polar regions of planet for their point of insertion and, just in case their calculations were off, they would have sailed under the planet at a respectable distance. As they neared the southern pole the vessels immediately switched their warp drive systems completely off, then channeled all available power into both their offensive and defensive systems simultaneously. Using a high powered burst from the impulse drive, the three ships pulled gracefully upwards together, like a flock of birds diving up from the surface of the ocean, on the far side of the Lasur Funop.

The Klingon's, caught completely off guard, were now directly above the Federation forces. The Vernol, pointed directly at the belly of the lead D-7, fired a devastating burst of laser power from her forward batteries. A hole was punched clean through the Klingon's port warp pylon. The Stockholm and the Tryla, having opted for photon torpedoes, attacked the port trailing D-7 and effectively knocked out its shields in a single pass. With the Starfleet vessels fast approaching their targets, the Vernol let out one final burst of laser fire, striking the lead D-7 once again in the already wounded pylon and summarily pulverized its warp nacelle. The Federation vessels then sailed triumphantly passed the Klingon's as if the enemy ships had been standing still.

On the bridge of the Tryla, Commander Pelish was ecstatic. The current success of this engagement only assured him of a future promotion. All he had to do now was seal it in blood. "Communications officer, send a message to Captain Sogon. Inform him we are turning around for a second run."

Chandra turned careened her head to face her captain. "Sir, there's already a message coming in from the Vernol. We are being ordered to reduce laser power and to provide cover to the Stockholm while she beams over a boarding party to the lead Klingon vessel."

Pelish was beside himself. Stringfiled's lethargic crew hadn't done nearly as much damage as the Tryla had. "What? And give Ben Stringfield all of the credit?" He said before he had a chance to think about his words. The communications officer looked at him questionably, but he paid her little mind. "Reply to Captain Sogon that we will form our own boarding party and attempt to take the Klingon vessel that we have disabled. Advise him that he will have to provide cover for us." And with that Pelish leapt from the command chair and rushed to the turbolift doors, not bothering to wait for a reply from Captain Sogon.

On his way to the transporter room Pelish had stopped by the ships armory, outfitting himself with two hand lasers and grabbing a fully armed security detail of four men and one engineer from the nearby lounge. The team made their way down to the main transporter room in time for the bridge to hail the captain over the ship wide intercom. Pelish reached for the white push button that would initiate the link to the bridge.

"Yes, this is the captain. What is it?"

"Sir, Captain Sogon is requesting that we provide cover to the Vernol and to stand down our boarding operations."

Commander Pelish nearly scoffed at the intercom speaker. When the dust of this had all settled, he thought, I will be regarded as the hero of this encounter. No one will care that he I've disobeyed orders. Besides, who was to say that the orders had been received anyways? Starfleet Intelligence would be behind him, there was no doubt in his mind of that, and so would anyone else who would care to listen when he told them what the communications from Intelligence had told him about the so-called Captain Sogon.

"Disregard the communications from the Vernol, Lieutenant. In fact, you may disregard all further communications from the Vernol until I signal you personally. Send another request to security to form a second boarding party. They are to transport over directly behind us once the landing area is secure."

There was a distinct uneasiness in Chandra Alward's voice as she replied. "Yes, sir. I… understand."

Pelish twisted the barrels of his pistols from stun to disintegrate, then he and his team stepped up to the transporter platform and signaled the chief to beam them over without delay.

"* * * * *"

"Sir," Science Officer Stegmann called in disbelief from his station. "Captain Pelish has beamed over to the Klingon vessel with a landing party."

Fool! It will be his own undoing. "Lieutenant Baden, please note in the ships log that formal charges are going to be filed against Commander Pelish for disregarding my order in this matter. Note that, as of this moment, I am relieving him as captain of the Tryla until such time as a board of inquiry can be established. Commander Shuster will be placed in temporary command of the vessel."

"There appears to be a power surge in the enemy vessel's secondary hull."

"What kind of surge, Commander Steggmann?"

"Massive power buildup in their fusion reactors. I'd say they are building up to a detonation, sir."

Sogon slapped the intercom button on his command chair. "Transporter room! Beam Commander Pelish out—"

His words were cut short as the Klingon vessel exploded in a violent ball of orange flame and debris. The high speed fragments pummeled the Tryla, tearing a six meter wide gash in her starboard warp pylon. The remaining Klingon D-7, without any internal power of her own, drifted slowly away as the shockwave pushed the helpless vessel to port—directly in the path of the nearby Stockholm. Sogon noted that Commander Stringfiled, quick on his feet, adjusted his ship along her z-axis and let the Klingon ship drift slowly under her. Sogon watched with admiration as the Stockholm quickly grabbed the powerless Klingon vessel with a well aimed tractor beam.

"Is the remaining Klingon vessel showing any signs of a power buildup?"

"No sir. She's totally dead in the water. Life signs are minimal. If we want to get any of the survivors out of there alive, we need to pull them out now before their life support systems fail altogether.

Sogon stared blankly at the forward viewer, seemingly oblivious to Stegmann's statement. He didn't trust the Klingon's and he had good reasons to hold fast to that mentality for the foreseeable future. This had been his first confrontation with the enemy and, while they had proven themselves resourceful, the Klingon's were nowhere near as ferocious as other commanders had led him to believe. These enemies could be defeated, and knowing that fact allowed a great calm to come over his composure. It was only then did his brain register what the science officer had told him moments before. "Survivors? Yes, of course." He stepped back to the command chair and seated himself comfortably. "Navigator, bring us in closer to the Klingon vessel. Engineer Preston, prepare to transport over to the Klingon vessel with a security detail and an engineering party. Lieutenant Baden, notify the Stockholm to assist the Tryla. Once that is complete, have the two vessels rendezvous with us to complete the evacuation of the Klingon vessel. The Vernol will take the Klingon vessel in tow to Starbase 10, barring any unforeseen difficulties."


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Stardate 4107.22

July, 2253

The Office of the Commanding Officer, Starfleet Intelligence, Klingon Sector, Admiral Franklin Lang, Starbase 23

The doors to the admiral's office swished open and, after a brief moment in strode the officer he had been waiting to see for nearly two months. Her shoulder length dark hair had been pulled back loosely behind her head and barley fluttered across the top of her straight shoulders. Her stride was perfectly timed and her swagger was almost nonexistent. Lang could see the self-confidence inside of her exude from nearly every pore on her soft, angular face. After precisely six paces she was in front of the admiral's desk, directly between an open chair and a young Lieutenant sitting in another chair on her opposite side. The admiral stood up and extended a hand to the young looking woman.

"Commander McAllister," He said with more warmth than he intended. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you in person. Welcome to Starbase 23."

Commander Bethany McAllister's emerald green eyes sparkled in the overhead light as she reached for the admiral's hand and gave it a firm shake. "Thank you, sir. It's a privilege to be here."

Once the admiral had released her hand he motioned it towards the lieutenant that was seated to Bethany's right. "This is Lieutenant Montgomery Scott, Starfleet Corps of Engineering. Mr. Scott, this is Commander Bethany McAllister, Starfleet Special Forces."

Bethany turned her eyes to Scott, and he to hers. He was instantly taken by her beauty, but tried in vain not to let it show through to his exterior. Her skin was like ivory, unblemished and perfect. She had large green eyes, not too deeply set, around a small, pointed noise. Scott paced his hands on the armrests of his chair and snapped himself up to a standing position. "Commander McAllister," he said as her offered her his hand, his voice heavy with his Scottish accent. "It's a pleasure to meet ya, lass." Bethany gave Scott an equally firm handshake and then nodded slowly with her head. The slightest hint of a smile crossed her face in the Scotsman's direction before she took a seat. Admiral Lang and Lieutenant Scott followed suit.

"I'm sorry for bringing you both here on such short notice," Lang began as he folded his hands in front of him on the gleaming silver surface of his desk. "But I believe that this situation calls for the very best officers in your respective disciplines, and I've been assured buy some exceedingly influential people that you two are the very best."

Scott gave Admiral Lang a quizzical expression, and then glanced at McAllister. "I'm afraid I'm not followin' ya, sir."

Franklin Lang, a human of about fifty Earth years, pursed his lips and leaned back into his chair. His chocolate colored eyes focused on his coffee cup and, as he gingerly reached for it, addressed the young Scotsman. "Mr. Scott, I believe you know Doctor Jonathan Whirley?"

All too well, Scott thought to himself with approval. "Aye, sir. I do. Commander Whirley and I did some research together for—."

Lang quickly raised a hand to silence the lieutenant. "For a project that has only recently become classified, Mr. Scott. I'm sorry, but we can't discuss that particular research at this time. Suffice it to say, Doctor Whirley had nothing but praise for you and your accomplishments during the experimental stage of your project. He's made more than a few remarks as to your engineering prowess."

To this, Scott smiled like a Cheshire cat, the corners of his mouth nearly touching the bottom of his ears. "Well, that's mighty kind a' him to say. But, if you lookin' for someone with real engineering skill, might I suggest you pull Whirley himself in on this. He's much more suited—"

"We currently have the doctor on a different assignment. Again, Mr. Scott, I've looked through your records, and I've spoken to a score of your fellow officers. I really do believe you are the best candidate to head up this program."

Scott cocked his head half way between looking at the admiral and facing Bethany on his left. "And what exactly would that be, sir?"

"And with all due respect, Admiral," Bethany injected before the Lang had a chance to answer Scott's question. "I'd like to know why I'm here as well. The communication I received at fleet headquarters was extremely… cryptic."

Lang nodded curtly. "As well it should have been. I'll get right to the point," As Lang pressed a button on his desk, a large picture of a rolling countryside that had been hanging on the far wall behind him slid upwards to reveal a nearly equal sized computer screen. The dark screen began to glow with electronic life. An image on the computer shimmered into solidity, and Scott instantly recognized it as the schematic for a Klingon D-4 Predator-class cruiser. "We've only managed to capture a small number of these vessels intact, and of those only a single vessel has yielded any information about the movements of the Klingon forces into Federation space. Each and every time our starship captains gets close enough to these things to beam over a landing party, the Klingon's blow up their ships. We've lost scores of personnel, equipment, and time trying to get our hands on some worthwhile Klingon technology."

"And exactly how do I fit in, sir?" Scott asked as he kept his gaze fixed on the Klingon schematic. She was a beauty of a ship. That much was certain. But she was also as deadly as they come, armed to teeth and packing a punch that could send even the most veteran starship captain into a panic.

Admiral Lang pulled down on his tunic to straighten out some of the wrinkles that had formed in it since he had sat down. "I need you to study some of the captured Klingon ships in our inventory, and I want you to figure out how to circumvent their self-destruct systems."

Scott chuckled in disbelief as he looked to the admiral. "That's a pretty tall order, sir. It'd be easier if ya asked me to rig it to shoot soap bubbles out of the disruptor banks. At least I can do that."

Lang smiled softly, remembering one of the stories he had been told by one of Scott's former colleagues. Apparently there had been some truth to the tale, after all. "Are you saying that you can't do it?"

Scott licked his lips, turning his eyes back to the electronic schematic on the wall. "All I'm saying, sir, is that it's designed not 'ta be done. Self-destruct systems are intended not to be tampered with. It's a set-it and forget-it system."

"I think you'll find, Mr. Scott, that Klingon's tend do things a lot differently than you or I." The admiral said with a faint smile.

Bethany leaned forward in her chair. "I'll agree with you on that point, Admiral." Then she turned her deceptively deep eyes to the Montgomery. "I've personally been in charge of commandeering one of these ships, Mr. Scott. I've seen first-hand what you've probably surmised by studying their blueprints. There is little rhyme or reason to their designs. There may actually be a way to circumvent the self-destruct system. Besides, any of the other half-dozen things you could discern from their systems in the process may give us an advantage in the war."

Lang leaned back in his chair and caused it to bounce forward and back slightly. "Hence the reason you are here as well, Commander McAllister. I want you to shadow Mr. Scott. I'd like you to be a living notebook of everything he discovers. I understand you have one of the most acute photographic memories in all of Starfleet Command?"

"Yes, sir. That's correct."

"Then use that to our advantage, Commander. Take very few physical notes. The more information we can keep locked in your mind, the less chance that information can be intercepted by—"

"Klingon's." Scott said dryly.

Lang's eyebrows went up. "By anyone, Lieutenant Scott. You're advanced technical training, coupled with Commander McAllister's Special Forces preparation, should be enough to safeguard any edge you can give us." Admiral Lang turned his attention to the young woman at Scott's left. "You'll then take that information back to Special Forces Command and disseminate it to your subordinates."

"And what about me, sit?" Scott asked. "What happens to me when this is all done? I was supposed to head out to the Fleet after my stint as an Academy instructor. I'm hoping to be a chief engineer someday."

Lang smiled. "And I'm quite sure you will be, Mr. Scott. I've been authorized by Starfleet Intelligence Command—once this assignment is complete—to give you free choice for your next duty assignment."

Scott's eyes went wide. "Ya mean… I could even get assigned to one of the new Constitution-class ships?"

The admiral's smile went from slight to wide. "There is a universe of opportunities available to you, Mr. Scott. Or rather—there will be. There are a few Constitutions' at Starbase 10 right now that are looking for engineering staff members. Also, the Farragut is nearing her trial runs near Earth right now and will be looking to fill numerous vacancies in her engineering department. I could put in a good word for you… keep a spot or two open until you're done here?"

From the tone in the admiral's voice, Scott was sure that Lang had already placed such a call. "Yes, sir. That'd be just fine with me," He said with a smile. "So, where do I sign up?"

"There's no need for that, Mr. Scott," Lang offered with a dismissive gesture of his hand. "It's already been taken care of. Why don't you and Commander McAllister go over some of the preliminary findings that Starfleet Intelligence has gathered? I'll call down to the shipyards and let the dock master know that you two are to have full access to any Klingon vessel in our inventory."

"And how many ships would that be, sir?" Scott asked.

"We have two D-4's that are mostly intact, a fairly well maintained G-8, and one badly damaged D-7."

"And haw many personnel will be assigned to our detail, Admiral?" Bethany asked hesitantly.

"There are no more personnel. You are a detail of exactly two officers, and you will report all of your findings directly to me."

Montgomery looked to Bethany, his smile still stretched across his boyish face. "It seems, lass, that we'll have our work cut out for us."

Bethany let out a slow sigh, shifting her eyes from Scott to Admiral Lang. "It seems so."

"Why don't we head down to the officer's lounge and grab a nip, Commander? Then we can head down to the docks and see what these Klingon ships have 'ta tell us?"

Bethany mulled the offer over in her mind for a moment. She hadn't realized that she needed a drink until Scott had mentioned it. Now the idea seemed as natural as breathing to her. She nodded slowly at Scott and flashed him what could loosely be called a smile. Scott took it as a good omen, then the two officers stood to face the Admiral and they excused themselves.

As Montgomery and Bethany walked through door to the admirals office, they were passed by another human male—a captain at that—and he seemed to be in a terribly hurry to speak to the admiral. Montgomery and Bethany looked at each other as the captain strode into the small office, as if saying silently to one another 'It's none of our business', then continued their stride into the corridor. As the doors swished shut behind them, Scott let out an audible sigh of relief.

"Are you alright, Lieutenant Scott?" Bethany asked cautiously.

"Oh… I'm fine, Commander." Scott replied as he rubbed his temple.

Bethany's tone was troubled. "You don't seem fine."

Montgomery kept his eyes fixed on the end of the corridor some twenty meters away. "To be honest, it's just that—no matter how well the meetings can go—I always seem to have this allergic reaction when I sit down in a senior officer's stateroom. I get a huge headache and I feel as if I'm trapped in a room with no escape route."

Bethany couldn't help but smile. She snorted quietly as she tried to stifle her laughter. "Yes. I get that feeling sometimes myself."

"But… you're Special Forces, lass." Scott said as he stopped in his tracks and looked at the beautiful commander. Yes. She was beautiful at that, wasn't she? "You're probably stuck in whole auditoriums full of higher-up's at times."

She nodded. "And believe me, the headaches increase exponentially as more brass gets slung at me."

It was Scott's turn to laugh. Bethany regarded the young lieutenant, as if this were the first time she had seen him. It was completely fair to say that he wasn't at all unattractive… even if he was a junior officer.

Scott took the liberty of shifting the conversation from work to pleasure to see where it got him. "So, I take it by your last name that you've got some Scotland in you?"

"Yes. My grandfather was from Dornoch. That's in—"

"Ya' don't need to tell me, lass. Dornoch is in the Highlands," He brimmed with pride as he spoke of his homeland. "Beautiful country."

Her smiled went flat. "I haven't been there since I was a little girl," she replied more awkwardly than she planned. Was she embarrassed by Scott? Was she jealous that his ancestry was so thick in his accent and hers was not? She mentally changed gears as the thought of her grandparents, long since passed away, flashed briefly through her mind. "And I don't need to ask you where you're from, Lieutenant. I know the Scott name originates further south in Scotland. You're a Lowlander."

Scott winched as if in pain. The expression wasn't lost on Bethany at all and she instinctively reached out a slender hand and placed it on Montgomery's shoulder. "What? Did I say something wrong?"

Scott licked his lips and smiled. "Lass, ya' have been away from home for too long, haven't ya'? We Scott's consider ourselves Borders, not Lowlanders. We do have our pride to consider, ya' know?"

She could see that she hadn't really hurt him, and she suddenly made a silent vow to try and get back in touch with the distant part of her ancestry. "Every Scotsman's got their pride, Lieutenant. Even their women." Bethany stood up straight, chest out, shoulders back in mock defiance.

While Scott couldn't put his finger on exactly what he was thinking, but he was quite sure that his first impression of the dark haired woman was a favorable one. Scott snapped his heals together, stood at attention, and then extended his hand grandly outward. "Lieutenant Montgomery Scott, of the Clan of Scott, at your service Commander McAllister."

Bethany licked her lips and smiled, then subconsciously looked to see if they were alone in the corridor. She quickly placed her fingers lightly along the seam of her uniform skirt and gave Scott a small curtsey. "Commander Bethany McAllister, of the family McAllister," she said in her best Scottish accent. Not only was she surprised by how easily it rolled off her tongue, but Scott was also amazed how perfectly it fit her. If there had been anything missing from her attractiveness up to this moment, everything was precisely in place. "It's a privilege to be working with ya', Lieutenant. And please, call me Bethany." She finished with a brilliant smile.

He briefly toyed with the idea of reaching for her hand and giving her knuckles a kiss, but decided it would have been far too informal. At least, at this juncture. Instead he simply smiled are her gesture. "Only if you'll call me Scotty."

"* * * * *"

Meanwhile, at the same moment that Scotty and Bethany were having their informal conversation in the passageway, Captain Keath Mason had made himself comfortable in the chair that had previously been occupied by Montgomery Scott inside Admiral Lang's office.

"Sorry that I kept you waiting for so long, Keath." Franklin said as he refreshed his cup of coffee. "My last meeting went a little long."

"It's no problem at all, Admiral."

"Of course it is, Captain. You came all the way out here from Starbase 12 to go over these figures." Lang motioned to an electronic stylus that Mason had placed on his desk a moment before. "The least I could have done was to be ready for you. At least accept my apologies."

Mason smiled warmly. "Fine, Frank. If it'll make you happy, I'll accept your apology."

"It will make me happy, dammit. I'm just glad I didn't have to make it an order."

Keath crossed his legs as he got comfortable in the plush leather chair. "As if I would have followed it." He replied acerbically.

"Watch it, Captain." Lang said as he absently stirred some cream into his libation, although he tried hard not to let out a full belly road at his former first officer. "These walls have ears, you know?"

"Well, maybe you can stuff some cotton balls in them for a few minutes while we go over these reports?"

Lang didn't need a rookie Intelligence officer's code book to get the message that Mason was trying to convey. Lang silently walked to a wall computer and pressed a sequence of blinking yellow keys on the terminal. Next to the computer an alcove slid open, which Lang then reached in and withdrew a small silver and black device that looked for all purposes like the familiar silver tube shape of a universal translator. He held it aloft in Mason's direction and then, getting a concerned stare from the captain, flipped a switch on the side of the device and then placed it softly on the desktop between them.

"Our conversation is now totally secure, Captain."

Keath was obviously nervous. "Honestly, sir—I was only kidding. I hate that thing," he nodded towards the device in the admiral's hand. "I always have. Ever since we discovered it on—"

"…on a planet whose name is now cataloged as Ultra Top Secret. And, regardless of the nature of our respective clearances, it will not be discussed at this time." Lang said, a note of seriousness overshadowing his usually jovial voice.

Keath shifted in his chair. "I guess… I just wished, that is, I hoped… that it had been destroyed or lost when the ship—"

"Really, Captain. There is precious little to be gained in rehashing old stories of battles long since past." Lang gave his former first officer a dismissive wave of his hand. "We need to focus on the present, Captain. And in that present, I need you to give me a full report." Frank Lang could see that Keath was troubled by the revelation that the 'silencer', as Lang had called it so long ago, was still in one piece and apparently functioning normally. Lang opened the side drawer of his desk and placed the silver tube into it, then closed it gently. "There, Captain. Out of sight, out of mind. Now, please… your report."

Keath licked his lips, suddenly feeling overwhelmingly parched. He decided to press on with his report despite what he had just witnessed. "We haven't gotten anything out of the Klingon prisoners we've been interrogating."

Lang furrowed his brow in disbelief. "Nothing at all?"

Captain Mason shrugged his shoulders. "Mostly just family names, ranks, and obvious lies about what their specific missions were when Starfleet forces were able to catch them. The only one who seems open to the possibility is a former frigate captain. He's says that he'll be willing to speak to Starfleet Intelligence, provided we abide by the terms of the Seldonis IV convention of 2248… and provide him with a neutral representative."

"Neutral representative?" Lang spat back, almost choking on his rapidly cooling coffee. "And have those Klingon bastards provided any neutral representatives when our men and women have been taken prisoner?"

Mason was taken aback by Admiral Lang's quick turn of emotion from nonchalance to outright fury. "Not to my knowledge, Sir."

"It wasn't a question, man!"

"Yes, sir." Keath said soberly as he sat motionless in his chair.

There was a thick silence that hung in the air between the two officers, one that threatened to snuff out all of the friendliness that this meeting should have afforded the two old friends. Captain Mason, his azure eyes leveling back to his stylus, decided to press on with his formal report.

After going over a few more testimonies taken by various Klingon prisoners, Lang was beginning to see that the Klingon's were putting up far more resistance to Starfleet Interrogation methods than he would have thought possible. He decided to file that information away and see what he could come up with at a later time.

"And what have you learned about what happened at Falgor? We lost three ships to a single Klingon frigate. How do we explain that?"

Mason opened his polished silver briefcase at his side and withdrew a printed hardcopy summary report of the action at Falgor, as originally dictated by Commander Frank Daniels, commanding officer of the U.S.S. Proxima.

Admiral Lang took the paper and read the report to himself in silence:

On Stardate 4105.21, two Larson-class destroyers and a Loknar-class frigate of the 10th Strike Squadron were severely bludgeoned by a single Klingon L-6 frigate. The following is my official report:

The destroyers Eylau and Jutland were patrolling the outer fringes of the Falgor system, left behind with the frigate Proxima when the main body of the Federation 5th Fleet withdrew to reform and ready itself for the inevitable Klingon thrust into Sector 23-H. The two destroyers encountered the L-6 frigate as it entered the area, readied themselves for combat and dispatched a message to the Proxima requesting assistance. The Proxima was currently on the far side of the system monitoring the leeward side of the proposed staging grounds. The Jutland called for the Klingon vessel to surrender, as per Starfleet regulations, as the enemy vessel silently approached. The L-6 quickly responded by firing on the Eylau, damaging its impulse drive system with the first salvo. The Jutland closed to extreme range of the Klingon frigate and opened fire, but the damage done to it by Commander Olden was negligible.

While the Klingon ship was concentrating its attention on the incoming Jutland, the Eylau managed to damage one of the Klingon's warp engines with a burst of laser fire, causing the L-6 to turn on the Eylau with a withering barrage of disruptor fire, destroying the Eylau's warp drive controls and causing the vessel to go dead in space. Once again, the Jutland fired to minimal effect, and the L-6 renewed its fire on the Jutland, which was no match for the Klingon frigate, either in terms of firepower or range. The Jutland received one damaging blow after another, all from extreme range for its weapons.

When the L-6 eventually closed for the kill, it was frustrated by the arrival of the Proxima. Approaching the Klingon from the rear, the Proxima closed the gap between the two vessels rapidly and delivered a devastating blow to the engineering section of the Klingon, only to be surprised by the Klingon's aft-firing disruptors. The ensuing blast burrowed into the primary hull near bridge of Proxima and forced Commander Daniels to withdraw. Fortunately for the Federation vessels, the moderately-damaged L-6 decided to withdraw, leaving the Eylau damaged beyond repair, the Jutland severely damaged, and the Proxima lightly damaged.

Lang all but tossed the report back to the gleaming desktop. "And this is the final report, Captain?"

"Yes, sir. That is the report that we are considering submitting to Starfleet Command."

Frank Lang brought his hands together and rubbed them through his salt and pepper hair. "This war is getting to expensive, Captain. And that's not just in manpower. We can't afford to lose three starships to one Klingon frigate again, even if two of them managed to limp back from the engagement. Do you have any idea what that would do to fleet morale?"

"I have a pretty good idea, sir."

Lang stood up from behind his desk and walked to a nearby viewport that looked into the vast expanse of the base's dock facility. Several hundred meters from his office, an Achernar-class command cruiser was being guided into its dock space by finely tuned tractor beams. Astern of the cruiser were two Hermes-class scout vessels that were currently waiting personnel replacements before they could resume their patrols of the nearby star systems. "We need to move our most precious assets away from the front lines, Captain. The loss of any of these ships—or of their crews—could cause a sever public relations nightmare for the Federation council, not to mention the taxpayers. We need as many supporters in the council as we can to continue to sustain our covert intelligence activities." He turned to face Captain Mason, his face drawn in concern. "We could watch our support in this war fall away like autumn leaves in the breeze."

Mason nodded slowly. "I understand, sir. What would you suggest?"

Lang licked his lips and folded his thick arms across his chest as he contemplated his next move. "Simple. We are going to remove all of the Constitution-class ships from the frontlines immediately."

The look of shock on Mason's face was undeniable. "But sir, those are our strongest ships?"

"And the most newsworthy, the most expensive, and the most complex. Could you image, Captain, the damage that would be caused if one of those ships were to be lost in the line of duty? Or worse—what if one were captured? Think of the repercussions of that. What do you think the Klingon's could learn from that technology? They'd have access to our most advanced weapons and fire control systems that we have, not to mention data storage and scientific instrumentation designs and specifications."

"I agree, sir. That's a terrible prospect." Mason hesitantly granted. "But… how can we convince the Federation Council to go along with it? They'll want those heavy cruisers on the front lines and not plying the space lanes of the inner sphere." And I'd like them out there fighting as well, he thought to himself.

This time it was Lang that shrugged his shoulders. "It's easy enough to say that the ships simply haven't had enough space-time under their belts. These are fantastically new and experimental systems, Captain. Perhaps the vessels need to undergo more trials before they are ready for deep space?" Lang leaned onto his desk with his fists and looked to Mason through squinted brown eyes. "I'm sure you can think of something, Captain."

Keath inhaled deeply and then let it out slowly. "Yes, sir. I'm sure I can."

"Then let's make it happen as soon as possible, Captain. I'll send a message to Starfleet Command within the hour. Once these ships have been rotated off the line we can consider other alternatives for their replacements and what our next moves will be for our Intelligence operatives in the area."


	14. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Stardate 4108.05

August, 2253

Incoming Subspace Message. Classification: CONFEDENTIAL

FROM: The Office of the Commanding Officer, Starfleet Public Relations, Commodore Joselyn Czernovski.

TO: All starship and Starbase commanding officers.

VIA: Office of the Commanding Officer, Starfleet Command, Fleet Admiral John Murdock, San Francisco, Earth.

As of Stardate 4108.01, all commanding officers are advised of the following:

All Constitution-class vessels are hereby withdrawn from active duty in forward deployed areas in and around the disputed region of space near the Klingon expansion into Federation territory. These vessels will be re-designated from their current roles as Active Combat Units (ACU) to their pre-war intended roles as Exploration Units (EU). This change is effective immediately. Forward deployed commanders are instructed not to rely on these vessels for any support in military engagements, even when said vessels may be operating in or near combat areas. Forward commanders should familiarize themselves will all other available options before requesting service or assistance from these heavy cruisers. Exceptions may be made on case-by-case basis, but only when such options are the only one available to safeguard the lives and property of Federation citizens, and even then such requests will require the full investigation of Starfleet Intelligence once the matter is concluded. No other exceptions will be tolerated. This change is in effect for Constitution-class vessels and their crews only, and will not be applied to any other vessels designated as cruiser or heavy cruiser at this time.

The Bode-class scout vessels, originally laid down in 2236 as the MK I, and more recently upgraded to the specs of the MK II designation, are now officially withdrawn from active service. With the increased output from Starfleet shipyards with respect to the Hermes and Nelson-class scout vessels, and due to the problematic maintenance requirements of the Bode-class, the less capable scout is no longer deemed a viable forward deployable unit. All remaining units will be assigned to the Ready Reserve (RR) fleet at Morena and, thus, will still remain on the Starfleet charter for the duration of the war. These units will be kept in a Ready-1 (R1) status and, should it be deemed necessary by Starfleet Command, will be able to redeploy to the active duty fleet within a brief predetermined amount of time. Starfleet Command wishes to extend a fair amount of gratitude to the commanders and the crews of the fifty-one Bode-class scouts that, for a short time, were the only vessels of their type in Federation space and were an enormous asset to the war efforts in this sector.

Preliminary tests of the new phased weaponry deployment systems are well underway. Several starships have been slated as pre-deployment test beds for this new system, including the cruisers U.S.S. Guardian and the U.S.S. Exeter. Starfleet Research and Development (SR&D) has high hopes that this new system will be available for front line duty within the next twelve months.

On Stardate 4104.01, the light cruiser U.S.S. Pinafore disappeared without a trace for a period of nearly three weeks. A search was immediately ordered by Starfleet Command. The Pinafore had last been reported in a remote area of space several sectors from the front lines of the war in a region of vastly unexplored territory between the Al Nath system and Thranstor. After two weeks of searching, and with resources dangerously thin, the search was officially called off on Stardate 4104.15. Exactly one week later the Federation listening post on Ovlon II was hailed by a vessel claiming to be the missing Pinafore. When the vessel arrived at Ovlon two solar days later, it was met by the Federation heavy cruiser U.S.S. Hood and the light cruiser U.S.S. Cowpens. During the debriefing of the Pinafore's commanding officer, Captain Arthur Mason, it was discovered that the entire crew of the Pinafore had no idea that they had gone missing. Further investigation by the commanding officer of the Hood showed that the chronometers on the Pinafore were precisely nineteen solar days behind those of the nearest Federation stardate marker buoy. Starfleet Intelligence is investigating the matter further, and it is advised that any Federation vessel operating in this area should maintain constant audio and/or visual contact with Starfleet representatives on both Ovlon II and Thranstor.

"* * * * *"

"Captains log, Stardate 4108.16. The Bonhomme Richards, having rotated off the front lines for the time being, is underway from Starbase 14 and is on her way to the planet Niobe at warp-factor four. We've been ordered to transport the Andorian diplomat Tal'ak back to his home planet, where the Federation has high hopes that he will be able to convince his government to allow for the construction of a new shipyard for both building and maintaining combat vessels for Starfleet Command. Tal'ak, who has a long and distinguished career in the Federation council, has made quite an impression on the crew thus far, considering we only departed the starbase two hours ago. Considering his former rank of Admiral, I'm not at all surprised by his nearly instantaneous melding with my crew. He has requested—and I have enthusiastically granted—a desire to lead a make-shift symposium on Federation law for the crew of the Bonhomme Richards, which will begin at approximately noon time today. It's been quite a long time since I was a student back at the Academy, but this is a once in a career opportunity for many of us onboard. How many more times will we be able to say that we were able to have a direct question and answer session with one of the Federation's finest statesman?"

William Blackwell signed off of his personal log and stepped out from behind his computer. He walked slowly over to the full length mirror that he had hung near his cabin door and gave his dress uniform one final inspection. He tugged at the bottom hem of the satin like material of his gold dress jacket, straightening out any wrinkles that had formed. He absently adjusted the triangular shaped ribbons that adorned the left breast of the jacket and—resigning himself to believe that he wasn't going to look any better than he already did—exited his cabin and headed for the nearest turbo lift.

When the captain finally reached the shuttle bay, the space was nearly jam-packed with both officers and enlisted men that represented every department on the medium cruiser. When all had been said and done, the hanger deck was the only space on the ship large enough to accommodate this many members of Blackwell's crew all at once. Everyone on board who was not on duty was asked—not ordered—to attend the symposium, and it looked as if no one was passing up the honor to hear Tal'ak speak. While William smiled absently over the fact that his crew wasn't wasting this opportunity, he also felt that he may have lost the best seat in the house, as he had earlier declined his Yeomen's request to save him a seat at the front of the crowd. While there were a great many luxuries that came along with being the captain, William was just as quick to refuse half of them for his crew's sake. He didn't require the pomp of 'rank has its privileges', and his crew came to admire him even more for it. After looking at the crowed of finely dressed officers, however, William was beginning to have second thoughts about what he had told his Yeoman.

As the captain scanned the room for an open seat—trying hard to look causal in doing so—he was almost instantly flagged down be his first officer, Commander Karl Hibbard. Hibbard had served with Blackwell for nearly three years now and had proved to be a nearly invaluable officer when it came to making sure the captain had his finger on the pulse of the crew. Karl, regardless of his rank and position, always seemed to be the life of every party or engagement that Blackwell found him engaged in. The crew gravitated towards his jovial countenance and his unequaled sense of fairness, and Blackwell would have been one of the first to point out that Hibbard would make an excellent starship captain someday. In fact, with the war dragging on as it was, Blackwell half expected to see just such a promotion message come across his desk one morning—one that told of Starfleet's need to abscond with his trusted first officer so that Hibbard could captain some green crew on a new vessel near the frontlines.

William both loathed and loved the idea all at once, although he could never be sure of which at any given time. As Captain Blackwell looked to Hibbard's tall, lanky frame, he wondered to himself how the man had managed to squeeze himself into the small space afforded him by the rows of crewmembers that were all but stacked on top of one another. There was an open seat next to Karl, and while William found the offer hard to resist, he was still slightly annoyed with his first officer. When William locked eyes with his first officer, Hibbard's large hazel eyes twinkled with that same air of mischievousness that Blackwell had come to expect from him.

"I know you said not to save you a seat, Will, but you were talking to your yeoman at the time, so I figured—"

"You figured it wouldn't be a breach of protocol to disobey the captain?" Blackwell asked as sternly as he could muster.

Karl only narrowed his eyes slightly and threw a half smiled back at William. Blackwell looked around the room once more, hoping that Karl's obvious disregard for his orders wasn't apparent to everyone—which it probably was—and then he gingerly squeezed himself neatly into the offered seat. He leaned over and whispered to Karl. "I could put you in for both a commendation for this, as well as put you down for disobeying my orders. So… since it would even itself out in the end anyways, I'm not going to say anything."

Karl reeled back in mock distress. "Not even a 'Hey, thanks Karl. That was mighty kind of you'?"

Blackwell gave Karl a sideways glace, smiled, then shook his head quickly.

"Okay. I'll remember that the next time you need me to save your butt on some God forsaken—"

The lights in the room began to go diffuse, and Blackwell put his finger to his lips and let out a shushing sound. "We'll talk about this later, Commander."

As the lights dimmed to half of their normal luminescence, a single spotlight that had been mounted high in the hanger control room shown down brightly on the makeshift stage that had been set up just forward of the large clamshell doors that protected the inside of the bay from the vacuum of space. Placed on the center of the stage was a four foot tall titanium podium with the blue emblem of Starfleet command emblazoned upon its front. The podium itself was reserved for special occasions that could often times be held on starships while underway, although in the last few years of the war there hadn't been much need for it, and Blackwell was at a total loss as to where it had been stowed away on his ship. William had sent his helmsman on a hunt for the missing piece of furniture and, after an exhaustive search, the young lieutenant had found it at the last moment lying dormant in the corner of a closet in the auxiliary control room. How it got there was anyone's guess. Regardless, it was dusted off and polished just in time for the Andorian representative to give his lecture.

From somewhere off to the port side of the hanger Tal'ak appeared wearing his formal diplomatic uniform, which could loosely be called an incredibly sparkly set of coveralls and capped with a knee length cape. Its silvery metallic surface, broken up by large patches of similarly sparkling aqua-blue and white material, caught the spotlight in a hundred different directions at once, giving the ambassador an angelic glow as he walked to the podium and expertly took command of the crowd seated before him. William was instantly reminded of some of the vintage stage shows in his home town of Las Vegas on Earth. Putting the Andorian's diplomatic credentials and military record aside, Blackwell had a brief flash of the man grabbing a microphone and singing a show tune.

"Good morning," He began. His voice was low and controlled—the effect of years of training and expertise in the diplomatic corps. "I wish to express my gratitude to Captain Blackwell for allowing me this time to speak to you all, and I thank each and every one of you for taking the time from your personal schedules to listen to what I have to say. On Andor, we take such lulls in combat to further improve on our training and tactile analysis of combat units. However, as a diplomat, I am well aware that humans—and I'm told that nearly ninety percent of the crew of the Bonhomme Richards are human—require a respite between engagements to reflect and learn from their experiences, and to honor those that may have fallen in combat. In these, we are not very different from one another. While I would wish to see more of my countrymen amongst your crew, I am still none the less proud to be in the company of fellow warriors such as yourselves. Having said that, I wish to begin this symposium with a brief moment of silence for those crewmen who will never return."

From somewhere behind William, a crewman shouted into the hanger, the sound echoing off every vertical surface. "Attention on deck!" The entire assembly quickly rose to their feet, their heads bowed as they recalled the memories of family, loved ones, friends, or shipmates that would never return to their home soil. The moment pushed on from seconds to minutes. Somewhere in the silent distance a woman began to sob. When the noises in the hall had finally subsided to utter silence, Tal'ak spoke once more, his voice slightly choked. "Thank you all. Please be seated."

As the crew seated themselves, William gave a cursory glance around the room to see if he could spot who had been crying. Perhaps there was something the ships chaplain could do for the crewman.

Out of the corner of his eye, some ten rows in front of him, William saw her. She was too far away for him to get a solid look at her, but noticed by the color of her uniform tunic that she was in the science department. There was no way he could have vaulted to her without drawing excessive attention to his movements, and he was silently grateful to see Lieutenant Janice Nellum, the ships one and only Ecologist, slide up next to the sobbing woman and place a careful arm around the woman's waist. Nellum then silently escorted her from the hanger bay.

When the last of the crewmen had found their seat, Tal'ak began to speak once again. "Let us begin where we should: With Starfleet's role in this campaign, as interpreted by Federation law. I will begin by reading from the Articles of The Federation, as they were established in 2087. Chapter 8, Articles 52 through 54: Starfleet Command," Tal'ak briefly looked up from the podium and saw that all eyes were firmly fixed on him, then continued reading. "Given the need for a common defense, Starfleet Command is hereby created to coordinate the armed forces of the Federation, subject to the control of the Federation Council. The force shall consist of contributions of personnel from the original member worlds. A central training center will be established to supply the ongoing needs of the fleet. Further expansion of the fleet will be consistent with the needs of the Federation, and will include considerations for exploration and scientific inquiry as well as the maintenance of a strong military presence."

Tal'ak continued speaking on the Articles of the Federation for another forty minutes, expounding on things that most of Blackwell's crew—himself included—hadn't heard since their academy days back on Earth. William thought it both enjoyable and refreshing. It was good for him to be reminded of the things that he and his crew, not to mention the whole of Starfleet, were defending and making such great sacrifices for during this conflict with the Klingon's. William's thoughts once again turned to the young woman had been escorted out of the hanger and her unseen face. It wasn't until Commander Hibbard, with a fine sense of when his captain's mind had taken leave of his body, tapped Blackwell on the shoulder did the captain come around to focusing on Tal'ak's words once more.

"As all of you should know, Starfleet is a vast and immensely large organization. Currently there are over six-thousand capitol ships of varying classes on the official register, and there are nearly twice as many auxiliary and support vessels to add to those accounts. No one single government entity could handle the bureaucracy needed to oversee such fleet. Hence, in the years proceeding up to the current conflict with the Klingon's, there were far too many voices that could allocate resources and materials to sectors that may or may not have had ample need for them. In fact, due to scientific and explorative concerns that were quoted in the Chapter 8, the size of the fleet—with respect to purely aggressive vessels—has been severely limited. Various treaty stipulations mandated that the number our military forces would have to fall significantly behind our other, more benign endeavors. It should be noted that there were a great many opponents of Starfleet in the Federation council in the years leading up to this current conflict."

The antennas on the crown of the Andorian's head were steady and unmoving, as if he was used to having the weight of an entire fleet on his shoulders. Blackwell could hear the whispers of his crewmates as Tal'ak let his words sink into them.

"Because you all have been near the front lines for some time now, there are probably a great many things that you are curious about that have been transpiring in the halls of both the Federation Council and Starfleet Command. I will attempt to expound of those as best I can at this time. To begin, we are currently on our way to Niobe, my home planet. Some of you have been there, some have heard of it, and I'm sure that for some of you that this is a new adventure. With respects to the latter, I want you to know that I somewhat share this sentiment. Although this is my home, I am something of a stranger here, as today I am obligated not to act as an Andorian, but instead must operate as a duly appointed officer of the Federation. The Federation Council has seen fit to silence the detractors of its past and move forward with an expansion of Starfleet the likes of which few may ever see again in their lifetimes." His voice began to steadily rise in amplitude. "I am going to Niobe to request that the Federation be allowed to build one of the largest and most strategically valuable starship construction and support facilities the Federation has ever known."

Whether Tal'ak expected it or not, the entire assembly applauded and cheered vigorously. Tal'ak raised his hands slowly and the crowd again became silent.

"While I have nothing but admiration for the shipbuilders of other worlds, I would be remiss if I failed to mention that Andorian's—as it is well known—have the most experience in building strictly combat ready vessels for the fleet. I have already been assured by the Andorian ambassador to the Federation Council that we will have the full cooperation of the finest Andorian shipbuilders in all of Federation space. Whereas before the war there was a staunch imposition on the overall size of the fleet, we are now going to see a dramatic increase in the number of fully qualified combatants that will be coming off of the ways. Andorian designers have, on their drawing boards, the blueprints for whole new classes of vessels that will, once put into action, decisively turn the tide of this war in our favor."

There was another round of applause from the crowed, this time with the crew rising to their fleet in support of Tal'ak's proposal. The former admiral turned ambassador held up his hands to quite the crew, which was finally accomplished after nearly two full minutes of rousing applause and cheering from the crew.

"I would now like to take this opportunity to take some question from you, and I shall do my best to answer them as adequately I can."

Blackwell noted with satisfaction that a great many hands were raised nearly simultaneously. The ambassador took each one in turn, answering each question with the ease of a trained politician. Many of the questions centered on the state of affairs concerning the new starship designs that Tal'ak had mentioned in his speech. He would reply, often, that the nature of the answer was classified and that he could not discuss specifics. He would, none the less, entice the crew with what little details he was able to offer that would suffice their curiosities. He was disposed to compare things such as proposed speeds, armaments, and crew compliments in relation to vessel classes that were already known to the crew. His choice of words, such as 'faster than', 'more maneuverable than', 'stronger shields than', and 'more scientific capabilities than' were more than enough to get the crowed whispering to one another in jubilant excitement. Even Blackwell himself found that he was encapsulated in their anticipation.

After the last remaining crewman had asked her question, the ambassador clasped his hands behind his back and closed the event with a hearty gratitude, reminding the officers that—as long as Captain Blackwell approved—they were free to remain in the hanger bay and discuss the implications of the news they had just received. The ambassador, not widely known for wanting to remain behind to mingle, had previously requested a private meeting between the captain and his senior staff once the symposium had concluded.

Blackwell, along with Commander Hibbard, Chief Engineer Ethridge, and the ships physician, Doctor Phillip Sumner, were now in briefing room three listening to Tal'ak expound on some of the details that he was unable to provide to the rest of the crew.

"I have to say, ambassador, that I'm extremely pleased to hear about the expansion in the fleet," Blackwell said with a grateful smile.

"Indeed, Captain. And, while this growth will come at a great cost to the citizens of the Federation, the cost of not doing so would be far greater."

"You mean… because the Klingon's are winning the war?" Doctor Sumner asked cautiously. The room fell deathly silent. The doctor's silvery, silky hair reflected a myriad of colors under the ships overhead lighting as he waited for a word from Tal'ak.

Blackwell wasn't sure if the doctor's question was—in fact—a question at all, or a statement that the ambassador would agree with.

"Not precisely, Doctor. What I mean to say is that Starfleet Intelligence has discovered some disquieting… rumors. Rumors that strongly suggest that the Klingon's are quickly nearing the completion of a new class of heavy cruiser, one that many have concluded is, in fact, a heavy battle cruiser. This alone could give them a significant advantage in this conflict, since Starfleet has no such vessels in their arsenal."

The lithe Chief Engineer, Scott Ethridge, shifted in his seat and fully turned to face the ambassador. "Are there any specifications on this unknown ship, Ambassador?"

Tal'ak folded his cobalt blue hands together on the conference table and regarded the engineer for a moment, then look to each of the men as he spoke. "The best estimates I've been given suggest that this new ship is on par with—or possibly even stronger than—the Constitution-class."

The men in the room exchanged worried glares, and with just cause. The Constitution's were, by far, the strongest ships in Starfleet. To think that the Klingon's could produce something that could surpass it was unthinkable. As if to reinforce this, Commander Hibbard chimed in. "And that's our most powerful vessel."

"Precisely, Commander. And, as you all know by now, Starfleet Command has removed those vessels from front line service. So, while I've been authorized by the Federation Council to increase the size of the fleet to counter this possible threat, I feel it may already be too late. Starfleet Intelligence is refusing to re-implement the Constitution's as combat units, despite these disquieting reports. The Andorian's will build new light cruisers, new destroyers, and score of new frigates to help push the Klingon's back into their own space to help counter the threat."

"But," Blackwell injected. "There are no new designs for heavy cruisers or battle cruisers?"

Tal'ak shook his head slowly. "Alas no, Captain. We need to focus those resources into increasing the size of the fleet at this time. However, there is a strong likelihood that we will also begin an upgrade program to bring existing hulls up to more advanced specifications to counter any new threat the Klingon's can throw at us."

"So… the question is, who will be first to finish the race?" The doctor added sardonically.

"There is no question about it at this point, doctor," Tal'ak said emphatically. "They will. And, unless the Federation can pick up the pace and change tactics, we will be lagging dangerously behind. Perhaps even too far behind to make a substantial difference."


	15. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Stardate 4109.02

September, 2253

Federation Starship Construction Yards, Thranstor

High above the beautiful beaches and tropical warmth of the planet Thranstor IV, Captain Benjamin Pulwer, former commanding officer of the U.S.S. Baton Rouge, was leaning over the construction yards status table when his aid entered the room. At least, he assumed it was his aid that had entered. No one else on the team but her would've been working at this time of night. The captain didn't even hear her as she approached him from behind carrying the latest tests results from the U.S.S. Bremerton, the second Santee-class carrier being built in the dry dock just outside of the main stations administrative complex. Benjamin was currently far to engrossed in the first ship of the class, the Santee herself, to worry about the still uncompleted Bremerton and whatever problems she currently faced.

As the aid came in she immediately noticed that Ben's attention was currently elsewhere, and decided to first see what it was that was so preoccupying him before she would begin her oral report. She looked over his shoulder at the schematic that he was studying.

The Santee-class, planned as a stop-gap measure that would ultimately lead to a larger fleet carrier design, was intended from the onset to be a conventional light fighter carrier. With most of the raw materials at Starfleet's disposal going into the production of front line destroyers and cruisers, the carrier program at the Starfleet Bureau of Starship Design had to make do with materials that were already on hand. After much debate, the design team had finally settled on the use of existing Class-1 saucer section primary hulls already being produced in sufficient quantities for the Bonhomme Richard-class cruisers. Those sections would be mated to a heavily modified secondary hull originally built for a fleet of nutronic fuel carriers. These fuel carriers had been pulled from the shipyards prior to their final fitting out, transported under secrecy inside the long tubes held by a small fleet of Starfleet Intelligence operated Kepler-class transports, and had ultimately arrived at Thranstor three months ago.

The fuel carrier hulls were thoroughly inspected, gutted, and rebuilt internally to handle fighter and shuttlecraft operations. The internal volume was split into two separate levels, one above the other, to help facilitate the simultaneous launch and recovery of fighter and shuttles in a combat situation. A traditional clamshell style hanger door was used for the fighter launching area above. One deck below was another angular door, slightly larger than the one above it, for the retrieval of launched craft.

However, the former nutronic carrier hulls were never intended to carry warp nacelles, as it lacked any of the required hard-points for the attachment of the nacelles, to say nothing about a lack of spaces to accommodate the plasma conduits. As such, the only solution to the problem was to elongate the impulse control section of the saucer module and then to add the nacelles to that point. The resulting structure not only added the vessels required speed, but also allowed for the entire assembly to be ejected in the event of a catastrophic warp drive failure. It was this very T-shaped section that Captain Pulwer seemed to be examining with great concern.

"Do you see it?" Pulwer asked without giving his assistant further notice that he was aware of her presence.

The Vulcan female's eyes traced down the long warp nacelles, then to the connecting pylons, then to impulse control section. Her keen black eyes then traced back along the path they had taken, ending at the warp nacelle caps. "I'm afraid that I do not, sir."

Benjamin stood up from the table, crossed his arms over his chest and inclined his head at the diagram. "Really, Lieutenant. It's right there."

The dark haired Vulcan looked at the schematic once again, this time more diligently. She leaned her thin face closer to the table, as if her eyes were absorbing every inch of the plans in every minute detail and then calculating each variable in her mental computer. After a few intense moments she withdrew her head from the table. He eyes betrayed the conflict that was in her thoughts. "I'm afraid I still do not see what you are refereeing to, sir. I see no flaw in the design."

Captain Pulwer smiled, his gray eyes sparkling. "You have to think fourth dimensionally, my dear Lieutenant Salur."

Her left eyebrow rose, but them immediately dropped. "By four-dimensionally you mean the addition of time to the standard three-dimensional model of space?"

"Exactly, Salur. We must add time to the ship."

"In what respects, sir?"

Ben smiled and waved his left hand out as if he were a salesman displaying the schematic to a would-be customer. "These plans take into account everything we know about physics, metallurgy, power distributions, and warp field dynamics, but they do not take into account the future." He said the last word with finality, hoping that its pretence would sink into the young woman's impressive mind.

"I'm afraid I'm still at a loss, sir." This time it was Salur's turn to fold her arms defiantly. She disliked not knowing what was on Benjamin's mind. The two officers had worked very closely with one another since the construction of the shipyards had been completed and even closer since they had begun to construct the new carriers. Pulwer and Salur had worked jointly with the designs that had been provided to them by Starfleet Intelligence almost a year ago, but she still found it difficult at times to understand his predilection for illogical conversations.

Benjamin decided to switch tactics, something he had marginal success with when it came to Salur. "The standard beam weapon we have installed on the Santee is the laser, correct?"

"Of course, sir"

Benjamin cleared his throat and gave the young woman a stern glare.

Almost imperceptibly, which would have been completely invisible to anyone else but him, she rolled her eyes. "Benjamin", she said under her breath.

Ben smiled. "Much better."

Salur ignored the mocking tone of his voice and continued her analysis. "Nine laser cannons in groups of three, positioned at—"

"Yes, yes. I know where they are." He waved a dismissing hand at the rest of her statement. "What I'm saying is that this conduit here—" He reached out with his left hand and placed a finger on a section of plasma conduit near the starboard warp pylon, then traced his fingers from that point along the hull back to the main engineering section. "This conduit is too small for the new phased weaponry that's currently on the drawing boards."

She gave his statement its due consideration. "Are you suggesting that we change the design of the ship to fit an untested and uncertain future weapon system?"

Ben shrugged his broad shoulders. "I'm suggesting that the new weapon system is sound. I've looked over all of the data, and I'm convinced it'll work. What I want to do is be able to swap out components in the Santee's with the shortest amount of down time in dry dock." Pulwer selected and enlarged three sections of the hull, two on the primary and one on the secondary hull. The highlighted sections enlarged to fill the entire table. "If we change out the plasma fittings here, here, and here… then add some larger diameter conduit here and here, we can allow for the addition of the new systems without it having a major impact on the structure of the ships."

It took her only a second to calculate the supplementary materials that would be necessary. "The additions you are suggesting will require approximately three-hundred additional cubic feet of untreated waveguide conduit per vessel."

"Is that going to be a problem?" Ben asked in his most playful voice. He had the distinct impression that it annoyed her when he did so, and he enjoyed every minute of it.

"I don't believe so."

Ben slapped his hands together. "Good, then let's work it into the plans."

Salur nodded slowly, then remained motionless for a moment.

"Is there anything else, my dear?"

She pursued her lips, looking down at the unread status report from the Bremerton, then back to Ben's eyes.

"Oh yes," Ben said in mock surprise. "I was thinking we could discuss it over dinner tonight."

Her eyebrow again rose and she inclined her head back slowly. "You've been late for our last three engagements, Benjamin. Logically I should decline your request in order to teach you a lesson in punctuality."

Ben narrowed his eyes and turned his head slightly. "I could… make it an order?"

"But I don't believe you will."

Benjamin smiled softly. "And I believe you're right. How does seven sound?"

Salur gave Captain Pulwer's well built frame a quick inspection from head to toe. At least, that's what Ben thought she was doing. She could have just as easily been checking the deck plates for warpage. She placed the report tablet in front of him on the table top, moving past Ben in a silent blur. Did she just brush against me, Ben asked himself as she straightened

"I will… consider it." And she turned briskly and left the office.

"* * * * *"

Stardate 4109.08

September, 2253

"Captains log: supplemental. We have arrived at the planet Videtu and are preparing to send down our landing party, which will consist of myself, first officer Pierce, our assigned scientific detail, and their respective security detachment. This will leave engineer Pratt as the sole remaining senior officer onboard the Hawking. I've been assured, by both Starfleet Command and Starfleet Intelligence, that there is little to no credible Klingon threat in the immediate area, so I feel fully confident in leaving this small detachment of command personnel behind on the ship.

I have to admit, I'm personally looking forward to going planeside to investigate the discovery made by the Deltan Science Conservatory that was reported to Starfleet Command last week. All of the initial reports I've examined have an enormous lack of detail on The Artifact—as it is now being called. Hopefully the three scientific researches we picked up on Starbase 12 will be able to shed further light on the significance of the discovery."

Lieutenant Commander Jeanne Curry pushed the circular white button on her desktop terminal and shut off the log entry recorder. She rubbed her eyes with her palms and, blinking a few times to regain focus in her vision, stepped up from behind her desk and moved over to the large storage locker beside her bunk. The crew quarters on a Canopus-class research vessel could be described as cramped at best and, in the three paces it took Curry to make the transition from one side of the room to the other, she found that she was more than delighted to be able to get off the ship and stretch her legs—even if it was only going to be for a short while.

The Artifact—as it had been described by the local Deltan science delegation—was beyond their comprehension. Jeanne knew it wasn't due to the Deltan's ignorance that the item had yet to be fully catalogued; it was simply that the Deltan's lacked the sophisticated instrumentation afforded to a Federation research vessel such as the Hawking. It mattered little to Jeanne what she and her landing party would find—just so long as she was able to breathe the fresh air of a terrestrial body and feel its fluttering breeze gently brush the sides of her face once more. She and her crew had been packed together in their small ship for nearly two months now, with only a brief respite at Starbase 12 to pick up the scientific detail. Everyone on the landing party was more than happy to go ashore—even if the planet had little in the way of shore leave facilities. Lieutenant Winifred Pratt, the ships chief engineer, had been the only department head to decline the invitation to join the landing party and had insisted on staying on board until the rest of the crew had had their fill of leave. That had been fine with Curry, and Jeanne assured Winifred that she would be asked to come down soon.

Jeanne pulled her long dark hair into a loose ponytail behind her head, then withdrew her standard issue gold utility jacket and put it on slowly, careful not to slam her wrist into the wall of her cramped cabin as she had done once before. She inspected herself in the full length mirror that hung on the starboard cabin wall and pulled a few stray strands of hair away from her face and moved them behind her ears. When she was satisfied that she looked as proper as any Starfleet captain should, she reported to the ships store to retrieve her sidearm and communicator. By the time Jeanne reached the ships single transporter room on the mid-deck, the rest of the landing party had already assembled.

"Everyone is a few minutes early." She said approvingly, glancing down at her wrist chronometer in the process.

Lieutenant Vincent Pierce, the ships first officer and science officer, smiled at her statement. "We're all itching to get out of this tin-can for awhile, ma'am," He immediately noticed the look on consternation on Curry's face and his tone changed immediate. "No disrespect to the ship intended, Captain."

Curry gave the young man another moment of solid glare before her face cracked in a half smile. "I don't think she'll mind the comment, Lieutenant. And to be perfectly honest, I'm a little eager to get out of here myself. Just remember, the Deltan's are a pretty… eccentric… with regards to their emotions."

Pierce exchanged a joyful glance with the dark skinned chief of security, Ensign Greg Jenkins. "Yes, ma'am. We are well aware."

Jeanne rolled her eyes in frustration. "We're here for one thing, and for one thing only, Mister Pierce. The Artifact is our only concern here. If the Deltan's wish to afford us some of their hospitality, I will still need to clear a shore leave request with Starfleet Command. And there is no way they'll approve such a request if our mission is anything but complete. Got it, mister?"

Vincent's smile faded and he stood at perfect cadet attention. "Yes, ma'am. Perfectly clear."

Jeanne wasn't sure if the ships self-titled practical joker was being serious in his tone or not. However, the face that he did acknowledge her order was all the reassurance she needed. The lieutenant and the rest of the landing party would keep their wits about them—at least, until the mission was over. Commander Curry received a silent nod from each crewman and each of the three scientists as she looked at them. When she was satisfied that they were ready, she initiated the ships automated transporter system and stepped up to the waiting pad.

"* * * * *"

The six members of the Hawking's landing party materialized just outside of a vegetation encrusted atrium on a small hill overlooking one of the planet's major trade centers. Jeanne noticed that the trade center, measuring nearly five square kilometers, was a bustle of activity even from their vantage point ten kilometers away. Scores of shuttles and transports could be seen taking off and landing, ferrying cargo to outlying settlements and orbital processing stations. The planet Videtu, roughly half the diameter of Earth and with nearly the same weather patterns and climate, had just entering its spring months. The weather outside was warm and inviting, and Lieutenant Commander Curry wasn't the only member of the party to notice. She glanced over at Lieutenant Pierce and saw him stretching out his arms in jubilance. If he was a cut he'd be purring, she thought.

Within seconds of beam down the party was met by a small delegation of Deltan scientists. They had silently emerged from the far side of the hill that was adjacent to the crew. As they rounded to formation they began the small walk down a grass covered slope that would put them face to face with the landing party. Jeanne took the initiative to meet the delegation half way to them. She approached the lead member of the group, a tall, bald male of perhaps sixty Earth years old.

"I'm Captain Curry of the Federation research vessel Hawking." She offered, careful not to offer a hand in greeting.

The man smiled softly and held out his own. "We have prepared ourselves for your visit, Captain. I assure you, you will not be inconvenienced."

Jeanne slowly took the man's hand, as if it were a live wire that was in danger of sending a lethal shock through her entire body. The Deltan people were well known throughout the Federation for their mastery of humanoid sensual encounters. It was said that simply touching a Deltan was sure to send any untrained human into an instant blissful paralysis. While Curry felt no shock of pleasure, there was an unusual sense of calmness and security that washed over her as she gripped the man's hand. It was as if she had just met a seasoned Federation diplomat that was absolutely comfortable in his own skin and equally adept at putting people at ease. The first thought that popped into her head, as unscientific as it probably was, was to call this absolute stranger 'grandpa', for that is exactly what she sensed when they touched.

Whether the stranger was reading her thoughts or not, Jeanne wasn't sure. He simply smiled at her in return and shook her hand softly. "There, Captain. No harm has been done. I am Wain, Chief Scientific Coordinator for the Deltan Science Consortium on Videtu. You may simply call me Chief Wain. Thank you all for coming so quickly."

Curry slowly released the man's hand, then absently rubber her hands together before she spoke, as if she were waking up from a dream. "It's our pleasure, Chief Wain."

Chief Wain looked over Curry to the rest of her party. "I wish to speak to you all in great detail. But first, let us get out of the sun. I have a portable office set up nearby. I want to show you all a small selection of the items we have discovered thus far, and then I will show you and your scientists to The Artifact." His final words, spoken with his chin held high, were said with a tone of reverence. He was exceedingly proud of the unknown item he had discovered and was quite eager to show it off.

"Of course, Chief Wain. I'm sure my team is equally eager to examine everything you've discovered."

The landing party from the Hawking had followed Chief Wain into a large prefabricated structure had been erected on the north side of the hill. The high vaulted ceiling of the tent-like structure, white in color and semi-translucent, gently fluttered in the afternoon breeze as Jeanne and her team studied the items that Chief Wain was now showing them.

On one of the half-dozen metal tables that had been arranged into two rows of three, there were large fragments of semi-metallic components. Doctor Anna Wade, chief archeologist from the team that had been transported from Starbase 12, was busy analyzing the pieces with her tricorder while her assistant, Doctor Eldan Bara, was looking over a stack of small, palm-sized cubes that had been stacked nearby.

"Doctor Bara, could you please come over here?" Anna asked, not moving her eyes from the material she was studying.

Bara replaced one of the cubes he was manipulating and stepped over beside Anna. "What is it, Anna?"

"I'm not entirely sure," there was an expression of definite confusion on her face as she held one of the metallic fragments up to the ceiling, attempting to let the filtered sunlight shine through the objects surface. He black hair spilled over her shoulders and down her back as she held the object skyward. "There appears to be some sort of material imbedded in this fragment, but the tricorder is unable to determine its exact composition."

Bara, his slightly unkempt blond hair almost flowing over his ears, took the fragment from Doctor Wade's small hand and held it up to the sunlight and nodded in agreement. "There's definitely something in there. And the tricorder isn't giving you any information on it at all? That's strange that we can see it with our eyes and yet the computer can't scan it."

Anna looked back to him with condescending eyes. "There are literally hundreds of things that can be observed with the naked eye that are un-scanable by standard instrumentation, Doctor Bara," she offered in here usual matter-of-fact tone. Moments later Chief Wain approached the two scientists from behind.

"What about the surface of the object?" Eldan asked.

"That's the other thing I wanted to talk to you about," she took the sample from Bara's hand and placed it back on the table about a meter from the remaining pile of objects. "Chief Wain, I have an unusual request."

"Yes, Doctor Wade?"

"Would you mind if induced a high amount of energy into this artifact?"

His brow furrowed. "Will it destroy the sample?"

"I don't believe so. The composition of the external structure shouldn't be altered by the energy."

"But you said your instrument was unable to scan this object. How can you make that determination?"

"The tricorder is able to identify some of the particles in this object. Of the ones that it is able to identify, I don't believe that inducing an energy field into it will adversely alter it at all."

"Very well," he offered hesitantly. "I am trusting on your expertise in this matter."

"Thank you, Chief Wain. Captain Curry," Anna called across the room. "Could you please come over here?"

A moment later, Lieutenant Commander Curry was at the side of the table nearest the fragment. "Yes, Doctor Wade. What is it?"

"I need you to fire a short burst of energy from your sidearm at this object," She said, nodding in the direction of the apple shaped chunk of pearlescent material on the tabletop. "A setting of level three—with burst duration of five seconds—should be adequate."

Jeanne looked questionably to Chief Wain, who only smiled and nodded his approval. She withdrew her pistol and, twisting its barrel to change the weapons setting from stun to low-output level three, aimed it at the object on the table. "Everyone, please stand back."

She pulled the trigger, white energy emitting from the tip of the pistol in a tightly confined point directly at the center of the object. The surface immediately began to glow, increasing in intensity with each passing second. At the point where Jeanne thought she would need to shield her eyes from the light that was being emitted, Doctor Wade signaled the commander to cease firing by placing a gentle hand on the Jeanne's shoulder. The doctor immediately held her tricorder aloft and, pointing it at the glowing object, began adjusting the sensor output of her computer.

Everyone's eyes were on the glowing object. After a full minute of scans by Doctor Wade, Elden was the first to speak. "What happens now?"

Anna was fine-tuning her tricorder as a look of disappointment crossed her face. The glow of the object began to fade with each passing wave of her tricorder. Why is it doing that? Doctor Wade lowered the tricorder, the device continuing in its diagnostic of the unknown material. "I thought this would work. I guess I was—"

Suddenly the material began to vibrate rhythmically and the light that it was emitting began to fluctuate and increase in luminescence, first in slow bursts, then increasing in duration until it was very nearly a strobe light casting stark shadows on the white walls. Everyone near the table began to step back slowly, all except for Doctor Wade—who was smiling uncontrollable. As the light bursts approached the point where they would nearly overlap, the object let out one final burst of light, casting everyone's shadows on the wall on final time, then the entire space went completely dark, save for what little light was coming through the roof of the building.

"Emergency lights." Chief Wain called out.

As the small floodlights mounted high in the ceiling came on, everyone's attention returned to the tabletop where the pearlescent chuck of material had been sitting a moment before. In place of the apple sized material was now a cube of gleaming dark material, with what appeared to be wires and small conduits extending from its smooth sides and melding directly with the surface of the metal tabletop.

As Elden leaned in close to give the new object a closer visual inspection, he jumped back in surprise as a small blue glow began to pulse from the center of the new structure. "What the hell is it, Doctor Wade?"

Anna placed her palms on the desk top and moved closer to the beautiful object, smiling widely. The blue light from the object casted a soothing glow across her alabaster face. "If my theory is correct, it's… Vegan."

"Vegan," Jeanne asked, her laser still pointed at the object. "As in…"

"The Vegan Tyranny." Chief Wain finished, his arms folded across his chest and a look of utter satisfaction on his face


	16. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Doctor Anna Wade continued to study the newly reformed object that was now firmly imbedded into the smooth metal surface of the table top. The device's continued to pulse steadily and slowly with an inner blue light that reflected off the workbench.

"What is it?" Lieutenant Commander Curry asked, her weapon raised and ready to vaporize the object in an instant if it proved to be harmful.

Doctor Elden Bara waved his tricorder as close as he dared get to the cube. "The tricorder is registering a form of energy that I've never seen before."

"It's Vegan. It has to be." Anna said softly as she leaned closer to the device.

"Don't get too close, Doctor," Commander Curry put a hand to Doctor Wade's shoulder and drew her sharply away from the device. "We don't know what it'll do if you touch it."

"I'm quite sure it's harmless, Commander." She causally shrugged Curry's hand away and resumed her visual examination.

"It appears to be trying to interface directly with the surface of the table," Bara offered in confusion as he tried to adjust his tricorder to get as much information as he could glean from the alien artifact. The pitch of the tricorder began to waver, dropping in pitch with each second. When Eldan stepped back from the side of the table, the tricorders pitch reverted back to normal. "Why would it do that?"

Doctor Wade only shook her head. "Most historical researchers believe that the Vegan's had mastered the filed of technology a thousand years before human beings ever took to the stars. It's thought that they became so closely linked to their technology that they eventually became a race of wholly cybernetic beings."

"I've heard of them," Lieutenant Pierce stepped up from behind the group. "But, aren't they extinct now?"

"As far as historians and researches are concerned yes, they are," She looked to Lieutenant Peirce, then back to the object. "Their civilization began to decline in the very early twenty-first century. By the time of Zefram Cochrane's first contact with the Vulcan's, the Vegan species had ceased to exist. No one knows why, but rumors abound as to their disappearance."

"And who, exactly, was the Vegan Tyranny, then?" Curry asked as she finally lowered her weapon. This time it was Chief Science Coordinator Wain who spoke up.

"The Tyranny was said to be the powerful military arm of the Vegan society. At one time, they were not at all dissimilar from Starfleet's relationship to the Federation. At some point, the military began a slow takeover of the government. It's postulated that, within a relatively short span of time, the Tyranny's influence allowed them to take control of the entire Vegan population. They entire species was later dedicated entirely to territorial and technological conquest."

Jeanne looked from Anna to Chief Wain. "You seem to be something of an expert on this, Chief Wain."

He only smiled and nodded his large bald head slightly. "I'm by no means and expert here, Commander. The cultural history of this sector is a hobby of mine, and there are rumors that the Vegan's once ventured out this far."

Something in the Chief's tone gave her pause, but she pressed on despite the reservation tugging at the end of her consciousness. "And it's your belief that everything here originates from them?"

"It was not just their race that disappeared, Commander. Their entire culture nearly vanished from existence in the span of just a few decades. There is almost no evidence that they existed at all, except for the stories Andorian's tell to their children at bedtime."

"The Andorian's?" Bara asked.

Anna clapped her palms together, her eyes going wide in elation, and turned to face Chief Wain. "Andorian historical records indicate that they had contact with the Vegan Tyranny about eighty years prior to the race's disappearance. There was a war between the tow that raged on and off again for nearly a full decade. The Andorian's claim that it was their victory in this war that stopped the Vegan Tyranny from regaining a foothold in the Alpha Quadrant and it led to the ultimate demise of the Vegan's as a species."

"But how could a race vanish so quickly?" Curry asked in disbelief, her grip on her laser pistol tightening as she continued to point it at the object on the table.

"As I said, they were fully integrated with their technology. It's widely believed that a mutant strain of choriomeningitus decimated the entire Vegan race. It destroyed them and all of their technology in one fell swoop."

Ensign Jenkins's dark face neared the group, his hand ready to draw his own weapon at a moment's notice. "How could a virus do that, Doctor?"

"Once it formed—or was initially contracted—the disease spread exceedingly quickly throughout the entire Vegan collective. Since they were a species of interconnected beings, and had little or no desire to become disconnected from their hive mentality, it was only a matter of time before the entire population, spanning hundreds of concurred worlds, was completely gone. It's hypothesized that the virus directly targeted the areas of interface between their organic and inorganic components, destroying the bonds at a cellular or atomic level. Their organic components would have become completely disassociated and their mechanical systems would have deteriorated rapidly as a result due the lack of structure provided by those same organic forms."

Assistant Archeologist Milly Rollins, small and thin, floated around to the opposite side of the table. "So why is it that you think Chief Wain has found some Vegan technology here? Wouldn't that technology have deteriorated hundreds of years ago?"

"Not necessarily," Wain offered. "Some Vegan artifacts have been recovered from a small handful of planets around the Vegan's home world near Triacus. These components were mostly considered entirely inorganic in design and were thus spared from the ravages caused by the disease."

Jenkins bulky form rounded the table and stood next to Ensign Rollins. "But Triacus is over a dozen sectors from here."

"Very true, young man. However, there has always been strong evidence to support the fact that the Vegan's were totally capable of constructing outposts this far outside of their system." Wain raised his hands and motioned towards the ceiling. "It was only a matter of time until someone stumbled across one."

"And you think that's what we have here?" Curry waved her laser pistol at the some of the items placed on the metal tables. "We have the remains of a Vegan outpost?"

Wain smiled and, for some reason she couldn't fathom, a cold chill ran up Lieutenant Commander Curry's spine. "I think it is more than a simple outpost, Commander Curry. Much more, in fact."

Jeanne cocked her head. "What do you mean?"

Anna realized it hadn't been luck or good fortune that had allowed her to be posted to this mission. She was one of the few scientists in the Federation that had ever had contact with a suspected Vegan artifact. Years ago, she had performed deep research on the Vegan culture for a thesis paper she was writing for the Federation Science Bureau. Since then the information had been stored, unused and uncalled for, in the back of her mind. Little did she know that twenty years later that speech, given to the top archeological minds of the Federation, would have allowed her access to the wealth of discovery now poised on her doorstep.

"He means The Artifact." Anna offered breathlessly.

Wain's broad smile softened and he nodded his head slowly. "Indeed I do, Doctor."

"So…which table is it on?" First Officer Peirce asked with a half-cocked smile. "Let's get a gander at this thing already."

Chief Wain licked his lips and looked nervously to Commander Curry and then to Doctor Wade. "It was far too… large… to be moved from its current location. We feared that to even transport The Artifact would have been detrimental to the integrity of the structure."

"Which structure?" Curry asked as she stepped closer to Wain.

Chief Wain looked to the few Deltan collogues that were assembled in the room before he spoke again, his tone leveled into a neat whisper. "The one you're standing on, Commander."

"* * * * *"

Chief Administrator Wain escorted the entire landing party outside of the research tent. In a single file line they rounded the small hill and were now standing directly adjacent to their initial beam down site. Doctor Bara, along with assistant archeologist Milly Rollins, were now positioned at the front of the formation, both flanking Doctor Wade on either side. Behind them stood the crew of the Hawking—save for Lieutenant Commander Curry, who was near the crest of the hill with Chief Wain standing a few meters to her left. As Chief Wain turned to face the surface of the hill, he reached into his flowing robe and withdrew a small palm sized device. He pointed it at the base of the hill and, a moment later, a rectangular hatch that was longer than it was wide began to flip open from the side of the grassy rise. Once it was fully open, the area below the hatch folded down into perfectly aligned steps that led down into a dark chamber.

"This portal was discovered quite by accident three weeks ago," He looked to Curry, her pistol drawn and aimed at the dark passage. "It leads to a central chamber that branches out into two smaller areas, and one additional compartment that houses The Artifact." He began to descend the staircase with Commander Curry close behind him, her laser pistol set at full stun. The rest of the landing party followed shortly behind.

There were dozens of steps that had unfolded down into the innards of the hillside. Near the end of the staircase the hard artificial surface of the steps changed to a soft wood. "The surface of this tunnel is exceedingly smooth and can be quite treacherous with all of the condensation in here. We had to construct the steps that were now traversing from local materials. For some unknown reason, the last fifty meters of the staircase was completely missing."

Doctor Rollins reached out her slender white hand and ran it gently along the surface of the tunnel wall. "These are very similar to the ancient tunnels discovered in Ecuador on Earth in the twentieth century. They're also similar to the ones discovered by the Albireo Expedition of 2219."

Eldan brushed his fingers along the tunnel walls as well. "But the tunnels discovered in those expeditions were cut at perfect ninety-degree angles. This tunnel is perfectly cylindrical." He removed his fingers from the wall and flipped open his tricorder. "My tricorder isn't measuring any variance in diameter from our initial point of entry to our current position. How is that possible, Doctor Wade?"

She spoke up from in front of him, not bothering to turn around. "It shouldn't be, Doctor Bara. No tunnels dug this deep have ever been discovered to be perfectly constructed. Please keep recording everything so we can fully analyze it later."

The team traveled down the long shaft for another twenty meters before finally reaching the base. There, erected at regular intervals along perimeter of the space, were flood lights being fed from portable battery units. Jeanne could see that the floor was not covered with dirt or debris as she assumed it would have been, but was instead a smoothly polished surface that reflected the lights being shone in the compartment. Doctor Wade could see two passage ways on either side of the large room they were now in, and a great door opposite on the wall opposite the bottom of the staircase.

"The two openings you see housed all of the items that we recovered and brought to the surface," Chief Wain began, and then motioned to the nearly ten meter tall closed door. "This door leads to The Artifact."

Commander Curry approached the door, expecting a door of such immense size to make an enormous amount of noise when it opened. When she was standing approximately three meters away she was startled to see the single door split into three portions, one upper and two sides. The sides split into unseen alcoves and the top half folded up into a crevice in the compartments ceiling. She crouched down to a tactical position and aimed her pistol at dark void in front of her.

"Commander Curry, I assure you that no one is in there." Chief Wain offered.

Ignoring Wain's comment, she called to her first officer without turning around to face him. "Vincent, I want full tricorder scans of everything in here." She switched on her handheld flashlight and walked towards the opening.

"Your flashlight may prove useless after only a short time," Wain said quickly as he jogged up behind her. "There is some form of energy field in there that depletes active electrical devices after a few minutes of continuous operation. That is why we have no portable lights setup in that compartment."

As the team filed into the chamber, Curry could see that the floor was no longer a continuously polished surface, but was in fact semi-transparent. Below the floor she were currently standing on she could see at least three more levels below her and just as many above. Within a few meters of entering the space the team made contact with a waist high guardrail that stopped them from falling into a seemingly endless abyss of darkness that was beyond it.

"The Artifact." Wain said slowly, holding his arms up towards the unseen monolith.

Jeanne asked Doctor Wade to join her at her side, then the two women requested that their respective teams converge all of the flashlight beams into what they assumed was the center of the room beyond the guardrail. The beams converged one-by-one until they were overlapping on the side of the target. There, stretching down into some imaginable distance, was an enormous cylindrical structure with thousands of tubes and conduits of various diameters running in a haphazard pattern across it's nearly fifty meter wide surface. In between the tubes the team could see their lights glinting off the metal skeletal structure of the thing, shimmering with the same pearlescent properties as the device they had studied in the research tent only thirty minutes before. The top of The Artifact, obscured by more darkness, was undoubtedly very near—or more probably was—the top of the hill they had initially beamed down on to.

Jeanne slowly sidestepped to Anna, not breaking her gaze on the object. "Whatever you do, I wouldn't shoot your laser at it."

"* * * * *"

"What is it?" Commander Curry asked Anna as they both stared at the immense object in disbelief.

Anna subconsciously shook her head slowly, stunned at the overall size of the object. "I have no idea. But it looks dormant."

"It looks like trouble if you ask me," Vincent said from behind the two women. "We should call this into the ship, Captain. We may need a bigger sensor suite."

"Can the Hawking handle this alone?" Anna asked sideways to Jeanne.

"Our sensor package is for general planetary survey or for short range scans of solar systems. Even if the sensors were powerful enough to penetrate the surface of the planet, we'd need several science labs just to analyze all of the data." She reached into her belt and flipped open the gold cover of her communicator. "Commander Curry to Hawking."

There was a burst of static from the speaker on the device, followed by a series of electrical popping noises.

"This… thing might be interfering with communications, ma'am," Vincent said as he waved his tricorder at The Artifact. "Whatever it's made of, it seems to be absorbing the signal from the communicators. In fact, I doubt my tricorder scans are entirely accurate. The Artifact seems to be scrambling everything."

Jeanne closed her communicator and replaced it at her side. "Get to the surface, Lieutenant and see if you can raise the ship from there."

"Aye, Captain." Vincent shouldered his tricorder and jogged back up the stairway to the surface. After nearly five minutes of running, Pierce had made it to the top of the steep staircase and into the open air of the grassy knoll. As soon as he had emerged from the structure his communicator began signaling him that the ship was requesting communications.

"This is Lieutenant Pierce. Go ahead, Hawking."

The voice of engineer Winifred Pratt came angrily through the speaker. "Where have you been,

Lieutenant?"

"We were in a cave near our beam down location. All communications were cut-off. What's your status?"

"My status? My status is that our position has been compromised!"

A lump formed in Vincent's throat. "Explain."

"Two Klingon L-9 frigates have entered the system and are holding a geosynchronous orbit directly above your position."

Think fast, Vincent. What would Jeanne do? What would she say? "Where is the Hawking now?"

"I've moved the ship to the far side of the planet. I'm keeping a sensor lock on the Klingon's. If they hadn't detected you before, you can bet they see you now that you're out in the open."

Vincent looked to the beautiful blue sky. "Understood, Wini."

"I think we've overstayed our welcome, Vince."

Vincent turned to head back into the structure. "I need to get the Captain back up to the surface so we can beam out. We'll hail you again in less than ten minutes."

"Make it fast, Lieutenant. I don't know how much longer it'll be until the Klingon's can manage to get a lock on the ship. I'm keeping the Hawking in a tight orbit to obscure her sensor profile, but we don't have the fuel to maintain our current course much longer."

"We'll be on our way shortly. Pierce out."

"* * * * *"

"I can't even begin to imagine what this thing could be used for." Anna was saying to Chief Wain.

"We believe that it is some from of communication's array that the Vegan's used to keep in contact with their distant home world."

"A sort of subspace amplifier?" Ensign Jenkins asked as he holstered his pistol. Chief Wain gave the Artifact a nod without turning to the redshirted security officer.

"If that's true, it'd be far more advanced than anything the Federation has ever developed." Jeanne Curry remarked as she stepped up to the duo. That was when Vincent burst through the door and ran towards his captain.

"Jeanne! We've got visitors."

Overcome with surprise, she quickly turned on her heels to face Lieutenant Pierce. Unfortunately, she had forgotten to lower her laser pistol before she had done so. "Klingon's?"

Vincent's hands immediately raised in surrender. "Yes ma'am," He said with a nod of his sweat covered face. "Two frigates, directly over our position."

Curry gave an apologetic look to Pierce as she lowered her weapon and he likewise lowered his hands. "Where is the Hawking?"

Vincent was still catching his breath, wheezing out his reply. "She's on the far side of the planet, monitoring the Klingon's position." He let out a volley of coughs before he finished. "We need to get out of here."

"Agreed," She said with a nod as she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. He met her eyes and, seeing the look of concern on her face, smiled in return. "I'll be okay… just a little out of shape." The corners of her mouth tugged upwards, and then she turned to address the entire group. "Everyone, I need your attention. There are Klingon ships in low orbit and it's highly likely they've ascertained our position. It's unsafe for us to remain here. We need to get back to the surface now!"

"But… what about the Artifact?" Wain asked incredulously as the Federation personnel quickly retreated to the doorway.

Jeanne craned her head over her shoulder to speak to him. "You can bring it with you if you like, but I'm getting my people out of here."

Chief Wain took one last look at the dark, monolithic device, then turned and ran to catch up with the Hawking's landing party.

"* * * * *"

Once on the surface, Curry withdrew her communicator and opened a channel to the Hawking.

"This is the Captain. Prepare to beam us up, Winifred."

Lieutenant Pratt's voice came over the speaker. "We're still too far away, Captain. We won't be at your position for another five minutes, and even then we'll still have the Klingon's to deal with."

"Can the Hawking do anything?" Milly Rollins asked, fear and uncertainty framing each syllable.

Vincent shook his head. "No, she only has medium lasers in her forward battery. It wouldn't even come close to doing damage to a Klingon warship, let alone two."

"So, we're all dead. Is… is that what you're saying?" The tears began to well in Doctor Rollins young eyes, then slowly dripped down her cheeks.

Jeanne turned to face the woman, then to Peirce in a silent order to calm the good doctor's nerves before she had a panic attack. She held the communicator to her mouth after a long moment as she contemplated her plan. "Winifred, you'll have to get the ship out of here. Once you're clear of the planet you'll need to send a priority one message to the U.S.S. Franklin. She was reported in this sector two days ago. She may be nearby."

"But captain, you'll be killed!"

"Don't worry about that. Just get the ship out of here. The safety of the crew is your primary concerns right now," She said as she closed the communicator. She loathed the thought of dying here and, for the first time in weeks, she longed to be back on the bridge of her cramped little research ship. A series of beeps from her communicator pulled Curry's attention from the dread she was now feeling in the pit of her stomach. She hesitantly flipped open the small device.

"I told you to get the ship out of here, Lieutenant. That's an order."

"But Captain, the Klingon's are preparing to fire on your position!" Winifred screamed into the communicator, helpless to assist her crew… her friends.

Jeanne turned to face Chief Wain and the rest of the party. "Everyone! Move away from the hill and take cover!" Each of the assembled team scattered in a half dozen different directions. Most found shelter in a small forest of trees that had sprung up around the base of the hill some decades ago. Vincent dashed behind a large boulder near the south foothill of the mound.

The party heard the distant sound of thunder, then the beautiful blue sky was pierced by a violent bust of green disruptor energy as it ripped down from heavens. It impacted squarely with the top of the mound, sheering off three feet of grass and overgrowth. What was left was a shiny pearlescent dome that now capped an otherwise perfectly serene hillside. Jeanne had to wonder what the Klingon strategy was. Their targeting system was almost as good as the Federations. The Klingon's were perfectly capable of targeting the life forms on the planet… so why aim for the hill? It didn't make any sense.

"This can't be good." Anna said from behind the same tree that Jeanne had hidden.

Another beam of energy shot down from space, impacting the now uncovered dome with full force. However, where Anna and Jeanne would have both assumed the blast would have incinerated the cap, the pearlescent material seemed to be absorbing the blast. The duration of this shot was easily twice as long as the first. When the Klingon felt he had given his all for the target, the bright green beam began to fade. Just as the disruptor bolt faded from view completely, the ground covering the entire are began to shake and tremble.

"I couldn't agree more!" Curry looked to Doctor Wade and yelled back over the rolling thunder of the ground.

Suddenly there was a tremendous shock which threw the entire party, and probably anyone within a three kilometer area, right to their backsides. Jeanne and Anna scrambled to their feet in time to hear the loud grinding of some unseen mechanical process, following by the hiss of bright pink gas as it was vented near the cap of the dome. As the landing party watched in disbelief, the entire top of the dome split into six equal segments that fanned out from one another and, a moment later, The Artifact began to slowly rise from the now open hilltop. The mechanism required to perform such a feat must have been immense and, judging by the groaning and wailing coming from the Artifact and from inside the hilltop, it hadn't performed this operation in a very long time. When its height had reached nearly a hundred meters, The Artifact began to pivot on some unseen axis in its center and orientated itself to the direction of the Klingon disruptor blasts.

All at once Curry knew what was about to happen and she was utterly powerless to stop it. "Everyone get down and cover your eyes and ears!"

Chief Wain, however, was struck with awe at the sight of the device rising into the mid-day sky. He watched as the middle of the device began to glow bright green. There was a crackle of energy near the tip of The Artifact, blue bolts of lighting arching and sparking in a hundred different directions all at once. Several long tubes on the rear of the device began to glow faintly red. Wain was struck by the sheer beauty of the thing. Then, for a moment, the entire device looked as if it had simply shut itself down. The crackling energy dissipated into the air, the glowing portions began to fade, and Wain took a silent deep breath of relief. He put his face in the ground, said a silent prayer, and then looked back to the device.

"It shut itself off." He said silently, but as soon as he finished speaking The Artifact let loose with what, by all accounts, looked like an enormous green tinted photon torpedo. The shockwave from the projectile blew Wain from where he was laying and caused him to roll into the small forest of trees several meters away from Commander Curry and Doctor Wade.

The thunderclap from the rocketing projectile was deafening, and everyone in the party had their ears ringing from the sensory onslaught. Curry staggered to Wain's position, her equilibrium completely off balance. "It's not a communication relay, Chief Wain," She screamed over the ringing in her head. "It's an enormous weapons platform."

The thunder clap began to subside just as the ringing in Curry's ears began to die down. She looked around for her crew and the rest of the scientific detail. "Is everyone alright?"

Vincent's head poked up from behind the massive stone he was behind. "I'm good." He yelled back boastfully.

Jeanne rolled her eyes and placed her hands to her knees as she steadied herself, smiling when she knew Vincent couldn't directly see her face. "Then get your ass over here, Lieutenant."

"Yes, ma'am." He began to stagger over to Jeanne's position, stumbling along the way. He got halfway to her point before The Artifact fired another shot with no additional warning. The ensuing shockwave blew Vincent off his feet and flung his body past Jeanne and Anna and into the base of a tree.


	17. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

"Vincent!" Jeanne cried as she rushed to the side of her fallen first officer.

Lieutenant Commander Curry and Doctor Wade ran hastily towards the large pile of brush that had engulfed the lieutenant. The two women cleared aside several small branches and found Vincent sprawled on his back with his left arm draped over his eyes. He was grunting and moaning as Anna began to scan him with her tricorder.

"Lieutenant Pierce," Jeanne said softly as she knelt down beside him. "Are you okay?"

Vincent uncovered his eyes and began rubbing his temples. "Did anyone get the license plate number of that truck?" he asked wearily.

Commander Curry looked to Anna helplessly. "Is he going to be okay?"

Anna flipped the instrument closed and looked to Jeanne. "I think so. The tricorder isn't registering any major damage. He'll probably have some general bruising and a mild headache for awhile."

Vincent groaned as he tried to lift his head. "You call this mild? It feels like I just smacked in the face with a two-by-four." He suddenly felt nauseous and his skin became sticky and cold.

Jeanne laid a steady hand on his forehead and pushed him back down. "Don't try to get up just yet, Lieutenant. Take a minute to catch your breath. You're in shock."

Vincent acquiesced as he felt his stomach contents well up into his throat. When his head was back down on top of the soft ferns he immediately began to feel better. "That sounds like a good plan to me."

Curry turned her attention from Vincent to the Artifact. It was silent now, with no indication that it was still active. In fact, if she didn't know any better, Jeanne thought it was waiting for another command. "I've never seen anything like that."

Anna turned her head to look past the edge of the forest. "It's obviously some kind of planetary defense platform."

"I'm sure of it. But, the size—"

"If it is Vegan in origin, it would be the single largest piece of evidence that the Federation has ever discovered." Anna rose to her feet and brushed off her slacks.

Jeanne worried for an instant that Doctor Wade might rush towards the Artifact to begin an analysis of the space cannon up close, but was silently pleased when the doctor decided to limit her observations to a discreet distance inside the cover of the forest. Anna placed her hands on her hips as she regarded the hulking structure. "Do you think we are in any danger, Captain?"

"If it is some form of planetary offensive weaponry then I would say that we are safe, however I don't think the Hawking—" Her sentence was cut off by a signal coming through her communicator. "This is Curry."

"Captain! Oh, thank God you're alright!" It was the worried voice of Winifred Pratt.

Jeanne looked to Vincent. "We're a little worse for wear down here, Lieutenant, but we're alive. What's the status of the Klingon's?"

"I've got nothing on sensors. They just… vanished."

Jeanne furrowed her brow. "Vanished? There's no debris at all?"

"If there is any, then it isn't any larger than a grapefruit."

Jeanne looked to the sky in the direction that the Artifact had lobbed its projectiles. "Did you get any reading on the weapon that was discharged?"

"Some. It was a form of plasma-energy combination, but I can't give you any more specifics than that. There just wasn't enough time from the moment I detected the blast until they impacted with the Klingon frigates. I could probably get a better scan if you could get that thing to fire another salvo."

"The next time that things fires at a target, the target will probably be you—or any other ship that enters orbit above our location."

"That's comforting," Winifred said dryly.

Chief Director Wain lumbered up behind Anna and Jeanne. "It's possible that the Artifact was simply responding to the fact that it was threatened by the Klingon's. We must use the Hawking's sensors to perform a detailed analysis of the device while it is still out in the open."

"Chief Wain, until we know more about this device, I'm not about to put my ship in a position where it could be destroyed."

Wain was obviously angered by her statement. "You have no evidence that it is overtly hostile! It may have just been defending itself."

She narrowed her eyes and stood toe-to-toe with the Deltan scientist. "And we don't have evidence that its intentions are benign," she replied sharply. "The Klingon's may have simply activated the device, and now it's simply waiting for another target to come into range. In fact, we don't even know what its range is. As long as the Hawking is in orbit she's a potential target, and until I can prove otherwise I will treat this situation as such."

Chief Wain took a single step backwards, putting some distance between himself and the Starfleet commander. "Meaning what, exactly?"

"We have to shut this thing down," she said, inclining her head towards the dark, monolithic cannon. "And we have to verify unequivocally that is completely powerless before I will allow the Hawking to come any closer."

Chief Wain crossed his arms over his chest. "And how do we do that, Captain? We aren't even sure how it works. We don't even know what turned it on in the first place. "

"The course of action is obvious. Doctor Wade and I will reenter the structure and attempt to deactivate the weapon."

"But… you don't know what you're doing!" He shouted in frustration. "You could permanently damage the Artifact. This is a monumental find and we are required to treat it with reverence."

"What would you suggest, Chief Wain?" Jeanne shot back in equal frustration. "That thing is a weapon and not even you could argue that fact. It's a weapon that we know has the power to pulverize any orbiting starship it feels is a danger to itself. It's hazardous, it's alien, and—if it were to fall into the wrong hands—it could prove lethal to the Federation."

A look of near terror crossed Wain's face. "You're suggesting that there may be more Klingon's in the area?"

"It's a distinct possibility, Chief Wain. It's been my experience that Klingon vessels this far inside Federation space never travel far from their respective fleets. We need to neutralize the Artifact now."

Chief Wain could see that his argument, no matter how strenuously he objected, would be defeated. "Very well, Captain. But, be warned: if anything irreversible happens to this object, I will personally hold you, Starfleet, and the Federation Science Council fully responsible."

She felt the overwhelming urge to dismiss his empty threats with a wave of her hand, but instead held her actions at bay. "I'll note it in my log," Jeanne finally replied, withdrawing her weapon and setting it to full vaporize. She looked down to Vincent, who had since propped himself up on his elbows, and she smiled casually. "If you're done napping, make sure no one else enters the Artifact behind us, Lieutenant."

Vincent patted his waistband, momentarily forgetting which side he had holstered his pistol on. He was relieved when he felt its smooth handle under the left hem of his tunic. He slipped the weapon from his side and set it to stun. "Yes, ma'am."

Jeanne flipped opened her communicator. "Hawking, this is the Captain. Doctor Wade and I are going to renter the device and attempt to shut it down. Send a signal to the rest of the landing party and have them converge on Lieutenant Pierce's location." She looked to Anna and saw on her soft face the same doubts that she herself had about being able to deactivate the weapon system.

"I hope you know what you're doing, ma'am." Winifred said cautiously.

"So do I." She closed the communicator and motioned Doctor Wade to follow her as she strode off in the direction of the Artifact.

"* * * * *"

Traveling once more down the steep stairwell that led into the inner workings of the Artifact was far more perilous than it'd been less than thirty minutes before. While the shape of the space hadn't changed in any way, the nature of what Curry and Wade were doing there had changed drastically. Where the walls had initially been lit with makeshift work lights strewn at regular intervals, the passageway down to the lower levels was now lit from within itself, with illuminated conduits running in a crisscross pattern all along the length of the walls and reflecting off the brightly polished walls where dark, obsidian like panels had been. When Jeanne and Anna reached the bottom of the stairs, they were amazed at what they saw.

The door leading to the Artifact's housing that they had initially gone through was now firmly closed, with no apparent entry point on the solid wall they were now confronted with. On either side of them, in what were once barely lit empty chambers, there were now rows of computer like devices and machinery humming and buzzing with small electrostatic discharges. The duo approached the room on the right and—seeing no way of getting more than a meter into the opening—turned to the compartment that was on the left.

When they entered the space, they were greeted with the compartment lights brightening in response to their entry. A row of computer screens on the far wall were displaying what could only be described as lines of data and graphics that bore little resemblance to anything either of the women had seen before.

"The Klingon disruptor blasts must have caused a massive regeneration cycle in the entire Artifact," Anna said in amazement as she looked around the room in wonder. "All of this equipment looks brand new."

Even as Anna spoke Curry could see that the room was still reconfiguring itself. From some unseen location behind one of the panels containing some computer displays, a series of small, thin conduits appeared like rubber snakes, only to slither in the air for a few moments as they searched for someplace to attach themselves. A second later they connected themselves to a port underneath a dark screen and went motionless. Then the monitor glowed to life as yet another computer came online. Jeanne walked to with a meter of the conduits and waived her tricorder at them.

"These are mono-filament waveguide conduits. They're transporting power from one part of the computer to the other. My guess would be that the Artifact stored up some of the energy from the initial blasts from the Klingon's and is now tapping that power to remain operational."

"Where is it storing the power?"

Anna shook her head slowly. "It's hard to get an accurate reading. The tricorder signals are getting bounced around at irregular intervals. It looks like some form of battery storage about two hundred meters below us.

"Batteries? So, will it eventually deplete itself?" Jeanne asked in exasperation.

"My readings indicate that if the weapon doesn't discharge it could probably maintain its current level of readiness for an extremely long time."

"How long?"

"Weeks… maybe longer." She all but smacked her tricorder, as if the action would clear up the sensor glitches the device was encountering. "I just can't tell. We'd need the Hawking's sensors for a more detailed analysis."

"I'm afraid I don't feel like waiting that long, Doctor."

"In all honesty, neither do I. I admit, while I'm impressed with the technology and the thrill of discovery, I think I'd rather examine this thing if it were powerless and we were high in orbit above this place."

Jeanne smiled at the Doctor. Yes, she thought. I could learn to like her. "I'm glad you don't feel as strongly about this as Chief Wain."

"His heart is in the right place, Commander. But, his motives are skewed. I've seen it happen before when a small person thinks they've come into something bigger than themselves. The problem is that it really is bigger than they think, and they can't handle the fame they are sure the find will bring them."

Jeanne nodded in understanding. In her own way, she'd also seen it before. "There must be a way to interface with this computer, but I don't see any input device. No keys, no microphones, not even a good old fashioned off switch. Let's take a look and see what we can find. I'll take one side of the room and you take the other, Anna. Just don't touch anything."

The women walked to within arms reach of the walls, studying with their eyes the layouts of each panel. Aside from the small conduits' that were sending power to the individual systems, the computer terminals seemed to be displays only, with no sign of any buttons, switches, levers, or anything else either on them could loosely identify as an input device. When Doctor Wade had navigated half of the diameter of the room, a shinny irregularity caught Anna's eye.

"Jeanne, come over and have a look at this."

Commander Curry stopped her visual inspection of a computer screen that was displaying some form of data analysis. "What did you find?"

"I'm not sure. It looks like some type of lever or control stick."

A pair of meter tall display screens, one above the other, dominated this part of the wall. There, jutting out from a small strip between the screens was an O-shaped handle of some type, affixed to the control panel by a short bolt. The most outward portion of the 'O' had a grip-like structure to it, with five slightly curving indents in its surface.

"You said the Vegan's were nearly identical to humans in their original organic forms. It would make sense that the construction of such a handle would be consistent with those forms." Curry said as she regarded the device.

"Yes. They eventually evolved to become cybernetic organisms. It's still highly conceivable that they could interface directly with their machines using a handle like this using their former biological components."

"So, you're saying that they didn't require traditional keypads," Jeanne nodded approvingly. "Very efficient."

Anna reached out her hand to grab the control stick, which was neatly slapped away by Curry. "What are doing?"

Anna rubbed her hand, more shocked that the captain had stopped her than how she had done it. "This is the only control we see. One of us needs to see what it does."

Jeanne's eyes were wide. "It could fire the weapon."

Doctor Wade shook her head slowly. "The thing seems to be able to do that just fine on its own. I'm guessing it's some form of manual override."

Curry was unmoved. "And what, exactly, are you basing that hypothesis on, Doctor?"

Anna shrugged her shoulders and looked around the room, holding her hands up in resignation. "Is 'desperation' a good enough reason?"

Jeanne's shoulders slumped down and she cocked her head slightly to the right. Although Anna's reason was nearly comical, Jeanne had to agree to with her. There didn't seem to be anything else the two women could do in the room at the moment, and Curry needed to shut the Artifact down as soon as possible. She quickly looked around the room once more, looking for a better alternative. Finding none, she resigned herself to the only option available. "Okay. Fine. But I'll pull you away forcibly if I think you're in any danger."

"That's fine by me." Anna said nervously, and then held her hand up towards the handle. As she got to within an inch of it, a small electric discharge sprang out from the handle and contacted her palm, causing her to pull back instinctively.

"Are you okay? Did you get hurt?"

"No," Anna said as she rubbed her palm. "It didn't hurt at all. I was just… surprised."

Commander Curry nodded in slow approval, her pistol held ready to vaporize the entire wall if anything dangerous were to happen to Doctor Wade. Anna cautiously moved her hand closer to the control once again. Another bust of small electricity lanced out and touched her hand, followed by another, and another. More and more tiny lightning bolts of blue and green energy exited the handle device the closer she got. Seeing that Doctor Wade wasn't in any immediate danger or pain, Jeanne let her guard down slightly.

Anna then reached out and firmly grasped the handle with her right hand. Two small alcoves suddenly opened on either side of the handle, and tube like umbilicals slithered out from behind them and connected themselves to Anna's wrist and forearm. She winched in pain at the initial contact.

Jeanne closed the distance and put and arm around Anna and was about to pull her from the terminal when Doctor Wade regained her composure. "It's okay, Captain," She offered through short breaths. "I'm… okay."

"You're not in any pain?" Jeanne asked as she waived her tricorder over the woman's now firmly connected forearm. The black tubes, no more than an a few millimeters wide, were now implanted into her arm. The skin around the contacts reddened and became slightly inflamed, but there didn't seem to be any other serious physical damage. "These connections have tapped directly into your respiration and central nervous system."

"Yeah," Anna said, smiling down a fit of utter terror. "It tickles a little."

"Is there anything else?"

"I'm not sure. It's like my whole body is one with the computer. I can… feel… all of the electricity going into the screen."

Curry stared at the monitor above the handle. The image that was being displayed was a series of red, blue, and yellow triangular forms that were moving from the top to the bottom of the screen. When the characters reached half-way down, they would reorient themselves into another direction, then continue down until they reached the bottom, only to drop off the screen as new characters appeared at the top.

"Can you interface with the computer at all? Do you have access? Were you right?" Jeanne wasn't sure which question she wanted Anna to answer.

"I… I think so." Anna said. Her eyes narrowed and she pursed her lips, as if she were concentrating on a fixed portion of the monitor. The yellow triangular shapes stopped their revolutions on the screen, and then began to shift themselves into a completely circular pattern. Within seconds Anna had managed to form all of the triangles into a make-shift happy face on the screen.

"That's the friendliest thing I've seen since we got here." Jeanne said as she smiled exhaled joyfully. "What kind of access do you have?"

Anna winced slightly as she shuffled her feet nervously. "It's hard to describe. It's… not like a traditional computer, where you would expect to find a directory structure or some human way of organizing data," She closed her eyes as a flood of sensory information washed over her. She reeled back as her nervous system was temporarily overloaded, pinpricks of pain shooting through her arm and up to her neck. She nearly keeled over until Curry put an arm around Anna's slim waist and helped her back to her feet, her arm still firmly attached to the computer.

"Anna?"

Doctor Wade's voice was distant. "I'm still here, Jeanne. It's just… a lot of information."

"Is any of it useful?" To say she was more than a little worried about Doctor Wade would have been an understatement.

Anna closed her eyes and concentrated once more. The colored triangle icons disappeared and were replaced as a schematic of the Artifact, outlined in green lines against a black backdrop, appeared on the screen. A small area, near the base of the device, began to flash in a steady green pulse. "I believe… this is the control reactor assembly."

"It's a power controller?"

Anna shook her head as if she was in a trance state, her eyes still shut tightly. "No. I would call this the… targeting system controller."

Jeanne studied the diagram before she turned back to Anna. "Can you shut it down?"

"… Yes. No."

"You can or you can't?"

Anna seemed to briefly be in pain, her words struggling to come out of her dry throat. "…Yes, I can shut it down. No, we cannot!" Anna swung her free hand out and struck Jeanne across the face, sending her back several paces.

Jeanne, in shock at the Doctor's quick movement, held a soft hand to her quickly reddening cheek. "Who are… we?"

Anna began to breathe heavily and then started to sob. "I am… Doctor Anna Wade. We are… the Vegan Tyranny." The words were spoken in a mix of the doctor's voice and a cacophony of lower toned voices.

Jeanne walked to within arms reach of Doctor Wade again, more afraid of what was happening to Anna than the fact that she could easily strike out again. "Anna, this is too dangerous. You need to disconnect yourself now." Jeanne said impatiently. "We can find another way to deactivate this thing."

Doctor Wade shook her head from side to side. "I'm… still here… Captain. The computer is trying to assert its programming on me. It's trying to bring me into its collective. It thinks I'm Vegan, but… because I am human…with… different thought patterns… its confused."

"You said you could shut it down."

Anna slowly nodded her head, and then began to shake it quickly from side to side. "No!" She screamed, almost sounding pained. "You must… obey!"

Jeanne could see that Anna was fighting an unseen enemy, and it looked as if the Doctor was losing. "What's happening? Anna, listen to the sound of my voice. Tell me what to do." Jeanne pleaded.

"Captain… I have the access to shut it down, but the program is fighting me…it is… it is against our will. We will not comply. Interloper! Intruder! Must… destroy…intruder."

That was the final thing Jeanne needed to hear. "Anna, I'm going to disconnect you—"

"No!" A voice that was a mix of Anna Wade and a synthesized chorus of voices boomed throughout the room. Anna turned to Jeanne and, behind her normally soft and kind eyes, burned a deep and unbridled anger. "You must not!"

Lieutenant Commander Curry jumped back, narrowly avoiding another physical attack from Doctor Wade's free arm, and set her pistol on a tight beam. She aimed it at the connection point between the handle and the computer and fired, but the point of impact only glowed with a small green glow. Nothing happened. She fired again with the same results.

Doctor Wade, or whatever was now controller her mouth, laughed ominously. "We are… absorbing the power of your weapon, Captain."

Jeanne leaned in and all but yelled at Doctor Wade.

"Doctor Wade. Disconnect yourself. That is an order."

Anna's head jerked slightly, her shut eyes clamped tighter tether, and her lips cracked open. "The Hawking has been targeted. I… I can't disconnect. I have to… stay connected… to keep the weapon from firing. I will… I will…"

Anna repeated her statement several times. Curry was alerted to the sound of her tricorder. The device had been programmed to alert her to any sudden rise in energy output by the Artifact. She held up the device and scanned the room.

"Anna, there's a power buildup in the control reactor."

"The weapon has targeted the Hawking. Its range is… I am… stopping the discharge cycle. The reactor… is going to go critical."

"How long?" Jeanne asked, feeling a wave of helplessness wash over her.

Anna winced in pain again. "Interloper!" The voices screamed around Curry, almost deafening her.

Jeanne could see that Anna was shaking now, as if a deep cold had chilled her to the bones. Throwing caution to the wind, Jeanne reached up and placed a hand against Doctor Wade's brow. She was burning up.

"Anna, we have to go now." She said, far softer than she thought she would have been able to muster, given the situation.

"Yes. Now. Go now. You must… go now."

Jeanne shook her head slowly. "Not without you." The tears began to well up in her eyes.

"We… we cannot go with you. I… cannot go with you. I will… I will… stay."

There was a loud thunderous sound from outside of the control room. "Anna…?" There was no longer any sign of response from Doctor Wade. It seemed she was now fully concentrating all of her efforts on stopping the Artifact from firing. Jeanne wiped the tears from her face and ran a hand down the back of Doctor Wade's thick blonde hair. "Thank you." She offered apologetically, then turned and ran from the space.

As she passed the great sealed door that led to the Artifact, she noted that a large bulge had appeared in its perfectly polished surface. Then, without warning, an explosion was heard beyond the door and a large chunk of the device slammed against the inner door, creating another dent some six meters tall at the base. Jeanne needed no further evidence as to what was about to happen. She ran up the horizontal shaft to the surface as fast as she could, tears still streaming down her face in the process.

As she broke free at the base of the mound, she made her way to where Lieutenant Pierce and the rest of the landing party had assembled near the edge of the forest. She tripped over a small boulder that she hadn't noticed in her rush to get back to the group and twisted her ankle in the process. Vincent and the young Doctor Rollins rushed to the commander's side and helped her back to her feet, nearly pulling her to where the rest of the team had assembled.

"Where is Doctor Wade?" Doctor Rollins asked as they all but dragged the captain.

Ignoring her question, Jeanne flipped open her communicator as soon as she had sat down in the middle of the group. "Hawking, are you there?" The ground around the entire hill was now beginning to shake violently.

Winifred's voice came joyfully over the speaker. "Right here, skipper."

"Get us out of here, Lieutenant. Now!"

"Yes, ma'am. I'm just coming into orbit above your position."

Jeanne, on her backside with Vincent's arm tightly around her waist, grabbed at her ankle. Vincent, the confusion on his face turning into concern, reached up a gentle hand to wipe away the remaining tear on her face. Jeanne looked to him in sadness, and then turned one final time to gaze at the Artifact. Large portions of the ground around the weapon began to bulge up and then sink down into craters of all sizes. There was a faint buzzing sound, which steadily grew in pitch and frequency until the entire landing party had to shield their ears. Green and blue static discharges were occurring at increasing intervals along the entire surface of the device as Curry felt the familiar tingle of a transporter beam that was about to dematerialize the landing party.

"What have you done?" Chief Wain yelled to the commander.

Jeanne felt Vincent's arms tighten around her waist as she fought down another surge of sorrow. She felt the momentary paralysis begin take hold of her, the first telltale sign that she was about to be transported from the surface. He voice dropped to barely a whisper. "We did what had to be done."


	18. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Stardate 4110.15

October, 2253

Office of the Commanding Officer, 1st Fleet, Admiral Grayson Beltran, Starbase 14, Janus Sector.

As the last of the Admirals strode into his personal briefing room, Fleet Admiral Beltran was quick on the heels of his second in command, Vice Admiral Coralin, commander of the 1st Strategic Force, as the two entered the room. The room itself looked like any other briefing rooms on a dozen different Starbase's that Everett had frequented in the last several months. The room was roughly thirty square meters, with a black conference table placed directly in the center. At the head of the table stood a meter tall podium of cast duranium that caught the overhead lights off of its smoothly polished silver surface. On the front of the podium was the insignia of Starbase 14, a fourteen pointed gold star inside of a red circle, with the larger star surrounded by fourteen smaller five point stars of silver. To the left of the table were three large rectangular viewports that stretched from floor to ceiling, inclined out at the top at a forty-five degree angle, which afforded a nearly unobstructed view of the dock area inside the cavernous station. The room was dimly lit, with only three overhead spotlights shining down—two on the table and one on the podium. As Grayson Beltran entered the space, the cadre of fleet commanders rose to their feet as the overall commander of the 1st Fleet walked confidently to the podium at the head of the large black table they were seated around.

Newly promoted Rear Admiral Pearson Everett, the former commanding officer of the U.S.S. Baton Rouge, now the commanding officer of the 7th Strategic Squadron gazed at Beltran with understandable curiosity. Everett, as well as the 9th Strategic Squadron's Izarian commanding officer, Rear Admiral Dar'an, and the commanding officer of the 11th Strategic Squadron, Rear Admiral Darius Cody, had been assembled for what the three officers assumed was going to be a large scale joint operation.

And there was little doubt why.

In the last several months, the Klingon insurgents in the neighboring sectors had managed to push back several smaller Starfleet Battle Forces and, in some cases, there had been a near total decimation of those Federation groups. At first Everett had found it hard to believe. That a Battle Force, which consisted of no fewer than twenty starships, could be so overwhelming outmatched by superior Klingon forces so deep into Federation space was appalling. Now, only a few scant months later, Everett and his fellow colleagues almost felt that those conflicts were the norm. It came as no shock, then, that versus sending out larger scale Strategic Groups of starships—usually numbering around eighty vessels—the Fleet Admiral was summoning even larger groups, the Strategic Squadrons—flotillas consisting of thee Strategic Groups—to counter the Klingon Empire in the Federation's own backyard. With over two-hundred and twenty ships to each of the assembled Rear Admirals arsenals, Everett was now wondering if it would be enough. When Fleet Admiral Beltran was firmly entrenched behind a podium at the head of the table he put their collective curiosity to rest.

"Good afternoon, gentleman," Beltran started, his grey eyes darting from one Admiral to the next. Beltran had come up through the ranks quickly. As a young lieutenant aboard the Horatio—an ageing cruiser from a bygone era—he had assumed command after the death of the ships commanding officer by an unprovoked attack by unknown assailants, who themselves would later be identified as Orion pirates. Beltran's quick thinking had earned him a promotion to Lieutenant Commander and, being the youngest officer to ever do so, was given the position as first officer aboard a battle cruiser that would later see more than its share of skirmishes near Tholian space. His own command had come as a direct result of numerous advantageous outcomes from those conflicts, as well as the establishment of first contact with nearly a dozen new species. His star was on the rise, and when the conflict broke out with the Klingon's, Fleet Commander in Chief Murdock had hand selected Beltran, by then a well seasoned Vice Admiral, to head up the entire 1st Fleet—a fifth of Starfleet's total forces—consisting of over fourteen-hundred vessels representing some twenty different classes of hulls, as well as any and all starbase's operating in the conflicted area of space with the Klingon's. When it came to figuring out who was in operational command of the Federation forces battling the Klingon's, nearly every officer from the lowliest Ensign to the Vice Admiral's present in the briefing room knew that Fleet Admiral Beltran's word was absolute. Beltran cleared his throat and brought the meeting to order. "Please, be seated."

Admiral Everett noted how young Beltran was, younger than he by nearly a decade, and briefly entertained the thought that this man alone would more than likely be the cause of defeat or victory for the Federation in this war. The two men had never served together before this conflict, but thus far Everett had nothing but supreme confidence in Beltran's ability to command his fleet to victory.

As if he were reading his thoughts, Beltran immediately looked to Pearson. "Admiral Everett, I believe you know everyone present?"

Person began a slow glance around the table. The first one to catch Person's eye was the man seated just to the right of Beltran, Vice Admiral Coralin, the felinoid Caitian commander of the seven hundred plus ships of the 1st Strategic Force. The Vice Admiral was by far the oldest member of the assembled officers, having served in Starfleet for the last seventy years. His dark fur, which Everett knew had once been dark red, had faded with time to a dull sheen of its former self, with the tips of most of his fur now tinted silver—a sign of high honor in the Caitian society. His yellow eyes, soft and welcoming, seemed to draw Pearson in as he briefly looked at his old friend. They had served together on many fronts in the past, and Everett was sure that they each still owed a friendly favor to one another for some good deed done in the past. Person had attended the wedding of Coralin's daughter, C'Leana, three years ago at the personal request of the Vice Admiral's family, a great honor that—if one knew anything of Caitian society—was not to be turned down without a serious explanation. C'Leana, as well as her husband and newborn daughter, had nearly been casualties of the war when the Klingon's had invaded the Rebonet system some months ago. Fortunately the family had managed to extricate themselves before the vast majority of the Klingon warships massed in the system after the short lived Federation victory orchestrated by Commodore Jarv Maxwell on Stardate 4012.10. Everett remembered with pride that Maxwell himself, now onboard the cruiser Formidable and commander of the 19th Strategic Group, was one of three such groups now directly under Pearson's command.

Pearson then looked to Rear Admiral Dar'an of Izar, who had served with Everett while they were both junior lieutenant's onboard the destroyer Hancock. Dar'an was a tall man, with his pitch black hair pulled tightly against his scalp—which had been traditional of Izarian people for the last several centuries. His ice blue eyes had a gaze that could melt pure neutronium, but he wielded a style of command that left every officer under him feeling as if they were a part of a larger family.

Everett was momentarily taken back to a time on the Hancock, when Dar'an and he had both managed to sit out their respective watches in the ships shuttle bay. Since no one ever came down to the bay while the ship was at warp velocities, the two had felt that it was the best time to settle an old poker debt that Dar'an owed to Everett. The two quickly went about scavenging a makeshift table from some empty crates and set it up just forward of one of the shuttles. After an hour of playing cards, Everett was up several hundred credits, which more than covered the friendly debt that Dar'an owed him. Suddenly, from behind the men, there was a loud cough. The two junior officers turned in unison and there, to their horror, stood the ships commanding officer, Captain Landis. Dar'an and Everett would later recall to one another that they were each completely paralyzed by the thought of getting caught not only gambling on the ship, but doing it while on duty—a court martial offense that would find the two young men scrubbing the engineering spaces with toothbrushes the rest of their careers. Instead of reprimanding them, the captain had simply smiled and asked if he could join the game. While the two men were initially relieved—and then delighted—to have the Captain join in their festivities, their joy quickly turned south as Captain Landis proceeded to beat the two junior officer's one hand of cards after another. When the captain had successfully drained both of the lieutenants' available funds, a feat taking only an hour or so, he had suggested that—since the two men no longer had any money—they should consider getting back to standing their assigned watch of the hanger deck. The captain then quietly collected his winnings and departed the hanger, leaving the two men gawking in his direction with their mouths hanging open. As Pearson now looked to Dar'an, it wasn't without precedence to assume that Dar'an was probably remembering the same incident. There was a brief shared smiled between the two men that hadn't set eyes on one another in nearly twenty years. Pearson nodded in satisfaction at Dar'an, and then turned his eyes left to Rear Admiral Cody.

Rear Admiral Darius Cody of Alpha Centauri was not a man to be trifled with—or so the scuttlebutt went. When it came to the truth of the man, the facts weren't far off. Pearson and Darius had had a run-in during a court martial that had convened several years ago while Cody was a commodore at Starbase 4. Cody had been asked to prosecute the case, while Everett had been requested to sit on the board of judges. Everett had watched for hours as Cody systematically picked apart the defense's case, one witness at a time. Some of them would charge off the stand in frustration, some had broken down into tears, while others were simply shocked into silence by the cold methodology of Cody's scrutiny.

Everett had later learned that Cody was just as vicious outside of the courtroom as he was while he was in it. A story had circulated about Cody's run-in with a Tellerite ambassador, and how the ensuing argument had effectively pushed back the Federation's relations with that culture by nearly a decade. While it was determined that it was the ambassador himself who had both instigated and enraged Cody with no provocation, the embarrassment to Starfleet was already set in stone. Considering that Starbase 4 was in a perilous position of hosting a delegation of Tellerite's during another trade negotiation in the next few weeks, it had been decided that, for the good of the Judge Advocate General's Office—as well as Cody's career—he should be transferred back out to the fleet after his JAG tour had ended. Cody, always the opportunist, had apparently refused to leave the JAG office unless he received a promotion to the Admiralty. Starfleet Command decided that it was a small price to pay for the abdication of his position, and Cody was soon back out in the fleet and in command of the 27th Strategic Group under Admiral Tyson. When Tyson was killed in a minor skirmish near the Triangle last year, Cody was temporarily placed in charge of the entire 17th Strategic Squadron. Not long after, some say do to a disagreement with Vice Admiral Martin—commander of the 3rd Strategic Force, Cody had been 'transferred out' and took command of the 7th Strategic Squadron under the command of Admiral Beltran. Everett inclined his head in the direction of Cody, which the Rear Admiral returned in an apparently self-satisfied manor. Pompous ass, Person thought to himself.

With his memory sufficiently refreshed, Pearson looked to Beltran and nodded that he was ready to begin the briefing.

"Very well," Grayson said with a slightly scratchy voice. He withdrew a glass of water from some hidden compartment within the podium and, after taking a drink, silently replaced it where it had come from. "As you all know, the Klingon forces near the front lines have become increasingly active in the nearby sectors. Starfleet Intelligence believes that a major Klingon push is about to begin. It is purported that this will be the prelude to a surge that could, if they are successful, give the Klingon's a foothold that would double the size of their current gains into Federation space. It is imperative that we stop them at all costs."

The assembled men gave each other bothered glances. "What kind of a surge are we looking at, Grayson?" Dar'an asked of his old commanding officer.

"Let me show you what Intelligence has come up," Beltran offered. He held his hand up and flicked his index finger towards an ensign that none of the Admirals had even known was sitting in the darkest corner of the room. The young woman, probably the Admiral's special aid, dimmed the lights in the conference room as a large display screen was lowered behind the Fleet Admiral's gleaming podium. The screen, once fully lowered to the eye level of the admiral, glowed to life with a high pitch beep and began to display a map of the lowest five sectors of Federation space. In the lower center of the screen—stretching for nearly four sectors—was a thick red line forming an irregular horse-shoe shape that extended from the Klingon frontier at the bottom of the map and penetrating over two sectors into Federation space. "This is the currently established front line of the war, gentleman. You can see that the Klingon's have penetrated as far as Sinbad IX. I don't need to tell you that this means the Klingon's have gained nearly twenty four light years of ground into our space to this point," He used a laser pointer to highlight the top most portion of the inverted horseshoe. "This is the apex of nearly five hundred square light years they've successfully conquered."

As the admiral finished speaking, the area of space now occupied by Klingon's began to flash in a slow and steady red pulse. Admiral Beltran allowed that information to sink in before he continued. "To answer your question, Rear Admiral Dar'an, I'll have Vice Admiral Coralin go over the next details."

Coralin rose from his chair and glided past Beltran, his felinoid hair gently whipping in the breeze between the two officers. As he stepped to the podium, the soft beams cast by the spotlight bounced off the heavily decorated breast of his gold command dress uniform. From where he was sitting at the far end of the table, it looked to Pearson as if the Vice Admiral had two dozen diamonds on his chest, sparkling in reds, blues, greens, and yellows as the Vice Admiral's thick chest rose with his breathing. The Caitian's substantial whiskers—protruding several inches from what could be described as he cheeks—bristled as he clasped one clawed hand behind his back and used the other to control a small, silver laser pointer. "Gentleman, Starfleet Intelligence believes that the majority of the Klingon surge will happen here," he aimed and fired his pointer. A beam of soft green light sped out of the tip and landed precisely on the Klef system.

Klef: A small, nondescript system devoid of nearly anything remarkable. There was a small Tellerite mining colony and an associated trading outpost on the only Class-M planet in the system. It had been established some fifteen or so years ago, but they had yet to make a major name from themselves in the intergalactic trading market. Based on what Starfleet Intelligence was now reporting, Klef was about to get a much larger point on the map, as some would say.

"That would seem like the most opportune target," Everett remarked as he looked over the entire display, and remembering that Klef was same location that he was required to fall back on only a few short months ago during his last engagement. Pearson had noted, and he was sure the other assembled officer had as well, that Klef was roughly ten light years from the new shipyards at Thranstor. It was probable that the Klingon's had somehow managed to decipher that the yards were now in operation and producing ships for the war effort. Almost nothing was known about the Klingon's intelligence service, but it was assumed to be extremely efficient. On more than one occasion, the Klingon's seemed to know where their adversaries were, even though Starfleet Intelligence was still deciphering the locations of those same Klingon forces. Even if the Klingon's didn't know about the existence of the shipyards, Thranstor itself was still in the general direction of their push into Federation space, not to mention a jumping off point into several heavily populated regions of Federation space. So, it was determined that—at some point—Starfleet would need to heavily defend that area of space from further incursions. While the Klef system still left a bad taste in Pearson's mouth, it now looked as if the time to defend that area of space was close at hand.

"If the Klingon's take Klef, they'll have an enormous strategic advantage over our forces. If they change course here," he pointed the later at a spot several parsecs from the Klingon's presumed current location, "they will head towards the Thranstor system. If they decide, however, to change course to a more galacticly north heading, they will be on a direct heading for the Sult system, which Intelligence believes will be a stepping stone for them to reach out and eventually strike us here at Starbase 14."

"You mentioned that the push for Klef would be the major objective in the area. What about the minor ones?" Rear Admiral Cody asked, twirling a pen between his fingers as if he had something more important to concentrate on.

Vice Admiral Coralin stepped from one side of the map to other, aiming and firing his pointer at a position opposite of Klef by some fifteen light years. "This is the planet Ogolo. It's a Federation trading post headed up by the local Argelian government. There is also a small Marine encampment there on the far side of the planet, as well as a fairly sizeable shore leave facility on the southern hemisphere used by multiple branches of Starfleet Command. As you can see here, Ogolo is exceeding close to Nostveg, at least by galactic standards." The screen immediately zoomed in. On the left of the screen was Ogolo, with Nostveg on the far right. There was nothing but empty space between the two.

Everett didn't need to be reminded of the Federation victory at Nostveg earlier this year. The three Starfleet Strike Squadrons, which ultimately fell under the command of Vice Admiral Martin, had destroyed or captured a number of enemy ships in the engagement and had forced the remaining Klingon's to retreat the system at high warp. Admiral Martin had wasted little time in dispatching the good news to Starfleet Command, who was equally as quick to disseminate the news via the Office of Public Relations. Starfleet Command knew that any good news in the war was sure to boost morale across the quadrant, and they had been correct. However, the communications that had been sent out to the general public omitted the fact that the Klingon's that had escaped Nostveg—and there had been a substantial number of them—were still unaccounted for.

"It seems Intelligence finally figured out where the surviving Klingon's disappeared to," Cody offered sarcastically. "It's about damn time."

"Intelligence believes that the Klingon's will be using the Ogolo system as a staging ground for further forays into Federation territory," Admiral Beltran said impatiently to Cody from his seat, leaning forward to put more emphasis on his next words. "They've made no claims that survivors from the Nostveg Engagement have found refuge there, and no communications have been received from Ogolo in the last several days that would indicate that enemy forces have entered the system. Intelligence is working hard for us, and you would be well advised to remember that fact, Rear Admiral Cody."

Vice Admiral Coralin, always the diplomat, sensed the tension between the two men instantly and began speaking before either of the two Admirals could lash back at one another. "As with all things in this war, Admiral Cody, nothing is for certain until it is. Hence, we will be dispatching a Strategic Squadron to that location to ascertain Ogolo's true status, and to reinforce the Marines already stationed planeside."

This was music to Cody's ears. Since the first day he was given overall tactile command of his squadron of two-hundred and fifty seven starships, he desired to put them to action in a major engagement that would demonstrate to everyone his fleet command qualifications. With the pending retirement of Admiral Martin, it was widely rumored that his replacement would be pulled directly from one of the six Strategic Squadrons in the 1st Fleet. Without winning a serious fleet battle, Cody was just another name on the bottom of the list. He needed to improve his odds of getting that promotion, and now it seemed as if he was being given the straight path to his goal. For the first time since the meeting had begun, his face lit up with glee. "That's fantastic news, Admiral Coralin. I can have the 7th Strategic Squadron there in less than three days. We'll show those Klingon's—"

"Not so fast, Admiral Cody," Admiral Beltran said as he raised his hand to silence the stream of thought that was about to spew from Cody's lips. "Please, let Vice Admiral Coralin finish his briefing."

"Thank you, sir." Coralin offered to Grayson Beltran with a curt nod. Everett couldn't tell exactly, but he was almost positive that Coralin was more than happy to have Cody silenced by Beltran. Cody simply slinked back into his chair and folded his hands somewhat defiantly in front of him, then shrugged his shoulders in the direction of Vice Admiral Coralin.

Pompous ass. The thought rang in Everett's mind like church bell on Sunday morning.

Vice Admiral Coralin turned his attention back to the main display. "There is one final piece to the Klingon's advancement. It is here," he said, and pointed his laser at a small green-blue planet right between Klef and the Ogolo systems. "This is Jevol. It's an agricultural center, chiefly responsible for growing many of the plants that can be found in the arboretums of newly christened starships. They also produce a great deal of the food consumed within the adjacent two sectors of space. Starfleet Intelligence believes that Jevol will be the fall-back strike point for the Klingon's, should Klef or Ogolo become untenable," Coralin's yellow eyes looked straight at Darius Cody. "This, Rear Admiral Cody, is where you will take the 7th Strategic Squadron."

Cody was beside himself. "Farmers?" he gasped in near disgust. "You want me to take an entire fleet of starships to protect farmers?"

"No, Admiral," Beltran said, leveling his eyes at Cody. "I want you to defend the lives and property of Federation citizens. Is there going to be a problem with that?"

Whatever Darius Cody was about to say, Everett noted with satisfaction that the Admiral simply swallowed it and kept his mouth shut. He may be a pompous ass, but at least he's a smart one.

"No, sir. No problem at all." Cody managed to stammer out finally.

"Excellent." Beltran said in elation, and then looked to Coralin to continue handing out the assignments.

"Admiral Everett, you will take the 11th Strategic Squadron to the Ogolo system. Once you've secured the area and made contact with the Marines, form a defensive perimeter around the system. You may need more eyes than even your fleet can provide, so we've made some intrusion detection satellites available to you, should you need them. You will then contact us once that is complete."

Pearson nodded with satisfaction. "Yes, sir."

"Rear Admiral Dar'an, you will take the 9th Strategic Squadron to Klef under my indirect command."

Dar'an raised a curious eyebrow. "Your indirect command, sir?"

"Yes. The entire fleet will depart in twelve hours, where I will be in overall command. The Elek system is thirteen light years from here. Once we have arrived at that point, operational command of the individual squadrons will fall to their respective Admirals and the fleet will subdivide. I, however, will be transferring my flag from the Guardian to the U.S.S. Franklin and will be remaining with the 9th as the overall tactical coordinator. A specially coded subspace link will be provided to each of you shortly, which will allow you all to maintain a constant open communication channel direct to the Franklin and, thus, to one another."

Admiral Beltran, still seated, spoke up from the left side of Coralin. "Are there any questions, gentleman?"

The room fell silent, except for the heavy breathing of Rear Admiral Cody.

"Then God speed be with you and your fleets," Coralin purred. "We depart in exactly twelve hours."


	19. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Stardate 4110.18

October, 2253

Administrator Vardan's office was decorated exactly as Rear Admiral Cody had thought. Once Cody had traversed the receptionist's office outside, he had entered Vardan's fifteen square foot office. Against the far left corner of the room was a triangular table, with three standard issue high back Federation chairs placed around it. In the center of the table was a triangular, three sided computer monitor, with one of the display's showing the current sensor readings of the Jevol system. On the right side of the room was Vardan's desk and, to the right of that, was a large display showing the current agricultural output of the colony. Behind the desk was a large transparent aluminum window that overlooked a field of green grass occupied by a heard of a variation of the Terran bovine. Cody had been here for only twenty minutes and, in that time, the Administrator's tone had changed from friendly to defensive.

"I'm not saying that Starfleet Intelligence is incorrect, Admiral Cody. I'm simply saying that there is no credible Klingon threat here." Vardan had said, attempting to placate the nervous Starfleet officer that was pacing in his office.

Darius Cody had been in the Jevol system for nearly three days now, and there was very little to show for the impressive array of starships that accompanied the 7th Strategic Squadron as they patrolled the system. Cody had, upon his arrival, immediately set out to secure the eight planet system in as little time as possible. With over two-hundred and fifty ships at his disposal, it had only taken forty-eight hours to not only secure the eight planets of the Jevol system—including the massive red dwarf star at the systems center—but to also set up routine patrols on the fringes of the last planet's eccentric orbit. While Cody was more pleased with himself than with his obedient junior commanders, he couldn't help but feel overly anxious to fight a battle that didn't look like it was coming at all.

At last report—which was only an hour old—the Saladin-class destroyer Tamerlane, positioned on the very outskirts of the system, had reported no unusual sensor contacts within a parsec of Jevol. Cody had then requested an impromptu meeting with Chief Administrator Vardan, the head of the local planetary government on Jevol.

Vardan, a human male of fifty-two, seemed more uneasy about the Federation's presence in the system than with the perceived Klingon threat he was being told they may face. His grey hair was disheveled, and his dark eyes looked like two large cups of coffee as he beamed them at the Rear Admiral from Starfleet who had 'commandeered his entire planetary system.' His skin was deeply tanned, probably from long hour spent outside tending to the farmlands, and his broad shoulders were pushed back as if her were in a defensive posture. Admiral Cody had run a thorough background check into the entire administrative department on Jevol before he had arrive, and aside from a few minor infractions by Starfleet Security, found no evidence that anyone responsible for the operation of Jevol's government would cause a problem for him… should the need arise for Cody to assume total operational control of the system. While Cody could understand the administrator's nervousness, he also found it unpalatable. Cody thought the man weak and insecure, and that Vardan had no place running the administrative duties of planet.

This was a system of farmers, lead by a farmer, and it was in a nowhere sector of Federation space. Cody felt that the technological level of the inhabitant's fell somewhere in the spectrum of the wild west of ancient Earth. If it hadn't been for the fact that they contained warp capable surface to space vessels, or the occasional computer terminal placed meticulously on a random desk, Cody was sure that this culture would have no place in a modern Federation. Cody had been told by Vardan that a number of the planet's major manufacturing systems and food processing equipment had been moved underground in order to maintain a certain level of aesthetical beauty to the planet's otherwise virgin surface. Cody had merely replied that an advanced culture should display their achievements for all to see, and that anything less could be perceived by outsiders as dubious, at best. If it hadn't been for a perceived Klingon threat to this system, Cody was quite sure that he would never return to this forgotten corner of the Alpha Quadrant ever again.

"I understand that, Chief Administrator," Cody replied evenly. "But we must remain vigilant at all times."

Vardan studied the Admiral with apprehension. Darius Cody, round in all the wrong places for his close fitting gold uniform, gave Vardan the distinct impression that Cody's short stature had much to do with his demeanor. He came off as someone with too much power and not enough internal assuredness to wield it properly. However, Vardan conceited that his impression of Cody was still in its initial phase, although the admiral's current demeanor gave little credence that the relationship between the two men could be kept professional.

Nevertheless, Vardan still didn't want or need the Federation swarming about his system. If there were Klingon's near Jevol, the presence of such a large number of Starfleet vessels would only serve to aggravate them into a conflict. And, if the Starfleet captains got trigger happy, it could lead to a conflict that otherwise might have been avoidable through more diplomatic channels. Besides, Vardan had his own reasons for not wanting Starfleet officers mucking about his affairs. Starfleet commanders were notorious for passing themselves off as amateur detectives. If they were to catch wind of his more unscrupulous affairs, it wouldn't look good for his customers, and even worse for himself. Vardan decided to change tactics on Cody and see where it got him. With his race being partially telepathic, he wondered if you could plant a seed of dissention in Cody's mind.

"You forget, Admiral, that I have also been in constant contact with your government. I have full confidence in Starfleet Intelligence's reports, Admiral Cody." Vardan said, although he honestly felt exactly the opposite. He only hoped that Cody didn't see through his veil of dishonesty. Now was the moment to plant his seed. "Perhaps… if you took some of your starships further out of the system… towards the Heuristic system?" Vardan increased the pressure on the frontal lobe of his own brain, pushing out his consciousness towards the Starfleet admiral. Slowly Cody stopped his incessant pacing and turned slowly to face Vardan. The Chief Administrator could see on the Admirals face that he was considering the idea, if only in passing. Vardan decided to continue to press his advantage and moved out from behind his desk. "If the Klingon's are coming in from Lee or Janni, then Heuristic might be a more apt location for their engagement."

"Heuristic?" Cody replied, as if he had just heard the name for the first time, his body and mind seemingly miles apart. Darius had to admit to himself that Heuristic would seem like a more ideal candidate for a planned invasion of this sector. The system contained two Class-M planets, one nearly twice the diameter of the Earth and the other slightly smaller. The larger of the two, Trini, had no intelligent life to speak of. The smaller planet, Arietis, had a population of amphibian humanoids numbering close to three million. They would be easy prey to the Klingon's, should the enemy choose to attack there. The other planets in the system included two rocky planets of mainly iron, silicate, and nickel, a single small asteroid that could barley be classified as such, and an icy moon on the outskirts of the system that mainly consisted of frozen methane. In short, there was ample habitable space and more than enough materials in the Heuristic system for the Klingon's to construct orbital shipyards in this sector—possibly even starbase's. However, Cody sill had the small stack of Starfleet Intelligence reports to contend with. Those same reports told him that Jevol was the intended target for the Klingon's, and they made no mention of any other systems whatsoever.

Vardan could see that Darius was mulling the thoughts over in his mind and decided to push a little further while still maintaining a cautious foothold on the outskirts of Cody's mind, lest he be discovered. "Far be it from me to suggest that you counterman your orders, Admiral. I merely suggest a probable alternative to your current situation. One that may be… more beneficial to you and your fleet."

Darius shook his head as if to clear the cloud of thoughts from his mind. "I can't disobey orders, Mr. Vardan. We've been ordered to remain here, regardless of my thoughts on the matter," Darius turned from Vardan and looked out to the field of grass and cows. "But…"

Vardan could see now that his argument was winning over the admiral's judgment on the matter. He smiled inwardly to himself at his own shrewdness. "Perhaps, sir, you could dispatch a portion of your fleet, yes? I'm sure Starfleet would look favorably on any such action. After all, you have an enormous responsibility to all of the systems in this sector, not just our tiny little corner." He finished with a leering smile, hoping that it hadn't been an over the top gesture.

After a long moment Cody nodded slowly, his voice low and distant. "Yes, I have a responsibility to the Federation," He turned to face Vardan, as if he had just woken up from a dream. "It'd be prudent if I sent a detachment out to Heuristic to… investigate. Wouldn't it?"

This time Vardan didn't attempt to hide his grin. "Yes, Admiral. Quite prudent—and wise, I might add."

Cody pushed his shoulders back, causing his already tight uniform to strain against his protruding stomach. "You are the administrator of this system, Mr. Vardan, and thus my command does fall under your jurisdiction. Besides, you are the ranking expert on this sector, not I. I will place my confidence in your request." He unclasped his hands from behind his back and reached for his communicator. With a confident flip of his wrist he opened the device, which responded with its preprogrammed series of chirps. "Baton Rouge, this is Rear Admiral Cody. Stand by to bring me aboard. We've received new orders."

As difficult as it was to Vardan to do so, he smiled inwardly to himself and never let the physical manifestation of it cross his gaunt face.

"* * * * *"

"Oh my God, you're killing me!" Lieutenant Commander Favere exclaimed.

Lieutenant Junior Grade Dupree only smiled sheepishly at the remark, not sure how to respond to his senior officer. "I've practiced a lot, sir."

"I've practiced quite a bit myself, but I've never seen accuracy like that," Favere said with astonishment as he continued to marvel at the fallen targets. "Are you sure you didn't rig the game?"

Dupree holstered his sidearm and shot a glance toward Favere, insulted at the notion that he had cheated in some way. Sam Dupree was the type of person that prided himself on both his honesty and his skill, and when he perceived that that pride was being challenged, he felt as if the proverbial gauntlet had been thrown—and to hell with whoever's rank was superior to his own. Nevertheless, Dupree knew instantly that Favere was merely kidding in his statement and decided against taking the Commander's accusation seriously. He chuckled to himself as he unbuckled the ancient looking weapon from around his waist. "You're just upset that I beat you at your own game."

Favere regarded the line of fallen targets once more, pursing his lips shut and sounding out a "Hum", then began to unfasten his own weapon. "Well, there's one thing for sure: your family would never have gone hungry in the Old West."

"Well, that's not really my timeframe, sir." Dupree smirked as wrapped up his weapon with the thin leather strip that had been previously tied around his thigh and place it in a storage box near his feet.

John Favere waved a dismissive hand in the air. "I know, I know. You have some bizarre fascination with that old Earth gangster era from, what was it? Oh yeah, the Great Impression."

Dupree let out a chortle. "Depression. The Great Depression, sir."

Favere shrugged his shoulders. "Depression-Impression. It's all the same kind of concavity to me."

"You need to broaden your horizons, man. Get your head out of those books about the Wild West and get into the modern age."

"Modern?" Favere shot back—in honesty as much as mockery—at the implied insult to his favorite period of Earth history. "I'll have you know that more people in the 23rd century ride horses than drive those filthy automobiles." When Dupree gave him a look of disapproval Favere only continued. "And what about the alcohol? Who in their right mind would want to outlaw a beautiful thing like that?"

"A president by the name of Wilson. I believe he was a lawyer."

Favere took the jab at his preferred major in Starfleet Academy—Federation Law—for what it was. "Touché." He said and nodded curtly, his dark brown hair wavering slightly. "Well, we aren't all like that, you know."

Sam withdrew a towel that had been bundles near the storage box and wiped off his hands. "Be careful, John. You're practically baiting me into spitting out a few lawyer jokes I've had stashed in the back of mind for just this occasion."

"You just can't help rubbing it in that you beat me at my own game here."

Sam's green eyes sparkled. "You know what? You're a sore loser, John."

Both of the officers stood in silence for a short minute, staring each other down with their best intensive glare, and then they each erupted in laughter.

"I still can't believe that the captain agreed to let you set up a shooting gallery down here." Sam said as he wiped the last beads of sweat from his brow.

Favere had to agree. When he had approached the Saladin-class destroyer Tamerlane's captain, Commander Summer, several days ago and broached the idea to him, Favere was almost sure that the old man was going to shoot him down with 'both barrels', as the old saying went. However, unbeknownst to Favere, Daniel Summer was something of an amateur marksman himself, having taken Archaic Marksmanship as an elective during his own academy days. After a brief debate with the captain over which firearm was more accurate, the revolver or the semi-automatic, the Tamerlane's captain had agreed to allow Favere to set up the range, albeit with a few restrictions.

For one, the weapons were not allowed to fire traditional rounds. That is, the projectiles were not allowed to be held in tightly packed cartridges of gunpowder. As a direct result, the weapons were required to be silent. While the bulkheads of the ship far down below the engineering section were heavily shielded, the only space long enough for a range was near auxiliary control, which had to be manned at all time. As a standing order, the captain required that anyone standing watch in auxiliary control should be constantly alert for anything out of the ordinary, and any distraction caused by the sound of weapons discharge could send any of the crewmembers there on edge—no matter how muffled the sound might be.

The design that Favere had finally settled on was more ancient than ingenious, but it fit the captain's requirements to the letter. He had asked one of the ships engineers to build two small weapons using a magnetic accelerator to launch the projectile at the correct velocity. Both safe and quite, the guns launched small polymer pellets at the targets with pinpoint accuracy. In a nod to firearms of old earth, the engineer had even fashioned the weapons to have the appearance of the six shooters of over four centuries ago. A sign-up sheet was immediately produced and placed in the ships galley on F-deck. Commander Favere had heard a rumor that a similar list was being passed around the bridge, but he had yet to see any of the department heads make it down to the aft end of G-deck where the range had been placed.

When Dupree had overheard what Favere had set up, he was the first one in line to challenge the self-titled master marksman of the Tamerlane to a shoot-off. The game was simple: a series of six circular targets, painted in alternating colors of red and white concentric circles, were placed at a distance of ten meters from the shooter and about a quarter meter apart. The shooter then had to knock down all of the targets, without missing a single shot, in the least amount of time. The looser, decided by the ships immensely accurate internal clock, would be disposed to do whatever he and the winner had previously agreed to.

Now that Favere had been squarely beaten by five tenths of a second, he was now at the whim of the junior lieutenant to do what was previously asked of him. John was now anxiously waiting for Sam to dictate the time and place to perform his deed.

Favere impatience got the better of him as he waited. "So, I suppose you'll want me to do it in some place like engineering or some such official space?"

Dupree raised his head to the ceiling as he pretended to pondered Favere's question, although he had already made up his mind before the shooting match had even begun. "No, I don't think it needs to be so formal, John. I was thinking the ship's galley."

"The mess hall?" Favere was beside himself.

"Yeah. Say about 1630 tonight?"

Favere rolled his hazel eyes as his hands fell to his sides. "Oh, God. Dinner time?"

Dupree was brimming with amusement at the Lieutenant Commander's predicament. "Yep, with the majority of the first watch present and accounted for."

Favere was instantly regretting the challenge that he had made to Dupree. John was so confident that he was going to win that he allowed Dupree to make any request he wanted, regardless of how embarrassing that request might be. Now he was hoping that Dupree wouldn't hold him to it which, unfortunately, the junior lieutenant from computer control seemed adamant to do.

Favere had all but resigned himself to his fate. "I don't suppose there's anything I could do to get out of this?"

"Like what, exactly? Are you prepared for me to make an even more ridiculous request of you? I'll have you know that I have a few more—"

Favere cut him off before he could say anything else. "Please, no. I don't want to hear it. While I couldn't imagine it could be any worse than this, I'd hate to have anything else you say change my personal opinion of how truly devious you really can be."

Dupree gave Favere his best impression of innocence. "Moi, Commandant?"

"You know, you're going to make one hell of a captain someday." John offered sarcastically.

"Captain? Someday? I'll have you know that I'm hoping to make Fleet Admiral before I'm thirty five."

John smiled broadly. "Oh, and I should add delusional to your list of accolades."

"And what about you, old bean?" Dupree asked with a laugh. "I'm sure the admiralty is on the edge of their seats to give you an entire fleet of your own."

Favere returned the laugh, as much to himself as to the remark from his friend. True, there had been a rumor circulating around that Favere was on the fast-track to a change of assignments on the ship. While being the Damage Control Officer on a destroyer was an admirable position that had afforded Favere complete run of the ship—and quite a few bridge watches to boot—it wasn't where John really wanted to be. As the scuttlebutt suggested, the ships chief engineer was said to be departing soon, and the captain was eyeballing Favere to take over the job. Should such a position become available, Favere would gladly accept it with open arms. Not that he wanted to stay in engineering for the rest of his career, but a change in assignment would very likely signal his much sought after promotion to full Commander, and likewise get him one step further to the coveted command chair that his eyes often fell on whenever he stood watch on the bridge.

"All I want is that center seat. Give me that and I'll be a happy camper for the rest of my tour in the fleet. The admiralty can keep their stars and bars," his eyes then fell onto the starboard bulkhead and the viewport that was filled with the gleaming pinpoints of light from distant suns. "I have all the stars I want out here."

Dupree clasped his hands together and held them to his cheek. "I had no idea you could be so romantic," then he laughed.

Favere jabbed a finger lightly into Sam's shoulder. "Shut it, Lieutenant. I have to get back to my quarters and shower before the big show, apparently."

Sam leaned towards John, the commander's finger still buried in the younger man's shoulder, and smiled deviously. "I'll be right there in the front row with a bouquet of flowers for you."

Favere rolled his eyes into his head and grabbed the storage container holding the make-shift revolvers, then headed slowly off to his quarters.

"* * * * *"

Lieutenant Commander Favere stopped outside of the light blue doors that lead into the ships single galley. He had been five minutes early and was now trying to postpone the inevitable. However, when Favere saw Commander Summer walking toward the galley, he knew that his delayed entrance would be forthcoming.

"I can't wait to see what you've got planned, Mr. Favere," The commander said joyfully, his usually somber eyes full of merriment. "Lieutenant Dupree was quite adamant that I should attend this little meeting you've called to order."

"I called—?" Favere repeated in shock, but then silence himself. Dupree, you snake.

"Yes, I was very surprise. Then again, that's the kind of initiative I expect from my senior officers." Summer remarked just before he walked through the doors into the galley. The crew immediately stood at attention, to which Summer asked that they relax back into their chairs.

When Favere—slow on the heels of his captain—entered the room a moment later, he could hear the hushed snickering and the whispering of comments between the crew. He looked around at the large rectangular compartment, its steel grey walls and bright blue crossbeams interconnecting at even angels, and the round tables filled with animated crewmen. He swallowed hard, walked confidentially to the front of the eating space, and addressed the fifty or so officers and crewmen that were present. He saw Summer, sitting in his gold command tunic with his legs folded and hands placed in his lap, waiting eagerly for what was to come next. Then John saw Dupree out of the corner of his eye. Oh no, John thought in terror. What's in his lap?

When Favere and Dupree locked eyes, the junior lieutenant stood up and neatly skipped to Favere's side, handing him the most ridiculous looking hat Favere had ever seen. It was tall and semi-circular, black in color, with outrageous looking tips extending both forward and aft. Jutting out from the top, and brightly colored like a red homing beacon, was an enormous feather.

"I thought this would get you more into character." Dupree said quietly, a boyish smile crossing his face before he strode confidently back to his chair.

Favere regarded the ridiculous accoutrement for a moment and then placed it on his head, much to the snickering delight of the entire crew—Commander Summer included. He cleared his throat, slung a silent curse in Dupree's direction, then clenched his left hand into a fist and placed it against his chest.

"Ladies and gentleman of the Starfleet destroyer Tamerlane. I, Lieutenant Commander John Favere, Damage Control Officer, will now give you the Major General's song from—" the crew was having a hard time stifling their hilarity. Dupree, for all the strength in him, looked as if he were about to burst out laughing from his chair. His face was beet red and both of his hands were over his mouth, clamping in the delight that struggled to escape. Favere regained his compose and cleared his throat to silence the crew once more. "…Major General's song from the 1879 opera 'The Pirates of Penzance."

On cue, the lights in the mess hall dimmed a moment later and, from somewhere Favere couldn't see, a spotlight had appeared and silhouetted his shape against the rear bulkhead. Well, here goes…

"I…am the very model of a Modern Major General, I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral. I know the Kings of England, and I quote the fights historical, From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical;

I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters mathematical, I understand equations, both the simple and—"

The rest of the song was cut off by the all too familiar klaxon of red alert being sounded throughout the ship. Commander Summer jumped to his feet and ordered the crew to their battle stations. Each of the crew looked stunned, but only for an instant before each of them rushed out of the room from one of three exits available to them. Favere altogether forgot he was wearing his hat as he bolted from the front of the compartment and out of the mess hall. Destination: Damage Control Central.


	20. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Stardate 4110.18

October, 2253

"Repeat: all hands to battle stations. This is not a drill. All department heads are requested to provide muster reports to the bridge immediately." The voice of the communications officer sounded on every deck and through every intercom inside the massive vessel.

Admiral Pearson Everett, situated deep inside the command center deep of the Heston class battle cruiser U.S.S. Tracy, stood with arms folded across his broad chest as he surveyed the trio of two meter wide view screens placed before him on the far wall, each of them glowing softly with various tactical displays of the Ogolo system. The far left screen was the closest perspective, showing the space immediately around Ogolo II. The central screen displayed the systems yellow main sequence star and the inner three planets of the system, with the final display on the right magnified out to the extreme angle and displaying the entire system of eight planets.

Everett watched pensively as the slowly flashing red glyphs that represented Klingon vessels had appeared—with almost no warning—near the farthest point in the orbit of the last planet in the system. Thanks to the efforts of the crews aboard the destroyer Charles Carroll and the Anton-class cruiser Southerland, Everett had successfully deployed the entire arsenal of intrusion detection satellites at his disposal only thirty minutes before the Klingon's had arrived—and now it seemed as if that tactic was going to buy him some much needed time.

In the entirety of his career, Pearson had never seen such a conglomeration of vessels in one sector, let alone one star system. While he had nearly two-hundred and thirty vessels at his disposal, he watched impassively as a nearly equal force of Klingon warships was fast approaching his position. The estimated time of arrival had been calculated, and Everett watched several seconds click down on red digital clock that was poised above the central most monitor. Ten minutes to go.

The last thing Everett had wanted was for the Klingon's to engage his forces near the only inhabited planet in the system. Far below the Tracy, on Ogolo II, a single platoon of Marines had been reinforced with several others from two of the newest vessels to enter Starfleet, the Santee-class light carriers Sigma Exat and the Kalinin Bay. The carriers were the talk of the entire 11th Strategic Squadron, large and beautiful vessels, each holding five squadrons of the latest in Starfleet attack shuttlecraft while simultaneously carrying the combined firepower of a medium cruiser.

As such, Pearson had ordered the Vulcan Commodore Synast to take the Kalinin Bay and the rest of the sixty-nine vessels of the 17th Strategic Group to form a defensive blockade around Ogolo VII, with the Tellerite Commodore Dozier, onboard the Sigma Exat, using the 15th Strategic Group to form a concave shield in front of Synast. With Commodore Jarv Maxwell on the bridge of the Tracy, the remaining ninety-five vessels of the 11th Strategic Squadron were formed into the 19th Strategic Group and placed in reserve around Ogolo II and III. Maxwell had made a name for himself a year ago when his squadron had captured almost a dozen Klingon ships in a single engagement near Rebonet and, with that success firmly tucked into his service record, Everett had personally selected the Commodore to lead the 19th.

It now looked as if Everett would need more vessels than even his reserves could offer, and he wondered to himself how many young men and women would die today to defend a small planet in a lonely corner of Federation space. He momentarily averted his eyes from the tactical display monitor to focus on the group of command personnel and specialists behind him.

The Command and Control room on the Tracy was easily the largest compartment on the ship, nearly twice the overall size of engineering and about three times larger than the ships bridge. Behind Everett stood three Fleet Captains, each of them responsible for coordinating the three Strategic Groups of the 11th Strategic Squadron. While Everett was in overall command of the fleet, it was the job of the individual Fleet Captains to issue the commands that Pearson required the individual groups to follow. To do this, each Fleet Captain had a dedicated communications officer seated behind them in a fully outfitted communications console. Each of these communications officers, in turn, had an assistant specialist to handle the flood of communications that were sure to be filtering into the Tracy any moment. With such a large number of vessels occupied in any particular engagement, only Battle Force commanders on those vessels could communicate with the Tracy. Thus, at the height of the engagement, the Tracy could handle the combined communications from all nine Battle Force commanders and dispatch any required tactical information to them in a timely and efficient matter. The communications between any groups smaller than those could be handled by the Battle Force commander's vessel themselves. Behind the communications specialists, in the far corners of the room, were the compartments damage control officer on the left and the Admiral's yeoman on the right.

The Yeoman, Lieutenant Darra Sydney, had been with Everett since he had been a Commodore and in command of his last starship. Sydney was a fine yeoman, the best that he'd ever had, in fact. She never seemed to be more than three steps behind him at any given moment, and he often had the impression that she kept a microphone by his bedside to cover any late night emergency he might have. Had he been twenty years younger, he was quite sure he would have taken a fancy to her. Her long, flowing blonde hair spilled gently around her shoulders, framing her petite face and sapphire eyes. He legs—which Pearson tried to avoid looking to at all costs—were long and shapely, and she filled out her uniform nicely in all the right places. Truth be told, he was taken by her even now. An old man's fantasy, he told himself when she looked at him and they exchanged a worried smile. He winked at her and she smiled back broadly, as if the mere gesture from him instilled a renewed sense of confidence in her that everything was going to be alright in the end.

Pearson's head quickly swiveled back around to stare at the tactical display just as the red glyphs of the Klingon's intersected with the blue glyphs of Commodore Dozier's battle formation. Within moments the battle communications began to file into the command compartment of the Tracy.

"* * * * *"

The hangar bay of the U.S.S. Sigma Exat was a bustle of activity. The immensely large space, nearly eighty meters long and flooded with the soft white light from the distant overhead, was a manmade cavity of the latest design. The port and starboard sides of the bay were lined with alcoves for fighters waiting to launch, each pointed at a forty-five degree angle to the centerline of the ship at the large clamshell doors that protected the bay from space. Currently there were twenty such shuttles readying for launch, their respective maintenance crews giving the vessels one final check before launch, with another twenty shuttles and supplementary craft stored in a nearly identical hanger directly below this deck. In the center of the hanger were two large rectangular elevators, outlined with stripes of alternating black and yellow bands, which could be used to quickly retrieve craft from the hanger below or to move returning fighters into the storage bays for rearmament and redeployment.

Lieutenant Commander Trent Denbo exited from the turbolift that lead directly to the hanger from the pilots briefing room in the primary hull. Upon his arrival in the hanger, the commanding officer of 101st Fighter Squadron was nearly toppled over by an ensign rushing to one of the waiting fighters, a stylus in one hand and a communicator in the other. The ensign, one that Denbo had seen only briefly in passing, was shouting something obscure into the communicator, then Trent could clearly discern the ensign emphasizing that 'if fighter number seven isn't ready to launch in the next sixty seconds they'll be hell to pay tonight, and both you and your immediate supervisor will go down to see the old man together.' In an effort to stem the ensuing collision of the two officers, the ensign quickly sidestepped Commander Denbo at the last minute, offering a quick 'excuse me, sir' as the younger man quickly carried on with fighter preparations without missing so much as a step, leaving a fragment of air wafting through Denbo's hair in his wake. Trent, momentarily frozen in his tracks, could only watch as the young ensign angrily flipped the communicator closed, holstered it in a black utility belt that was snug around his olive green work coveralls, then began pointing and shouting something unintelligible at the enlisted men that was straddling the top of fighter number seven.

The fighters themselves, sleek and beautiful, were the envy of any shuttle pilot worth his salt. They had the overall shape of a metallic teardrop that had been placed on its side. At the bulbous front end of the craft were two viewports that were contoured to the front of the hull, which was just wide enough for the two crewman it took to properly pilot the small vessel. At the tapered aft end of the ship, jutting out on either side, were small wing like structures that fanned out slightly, giving the craft better handling during atmospheric flight and which were also used to house the small laser batteries for the craft. Slung under these structures were the small, tubular micro-warp engines, capable of propelling the vessel at warp-factor two for an extremely short duration. All of the vessels thrust during tight combat came from the fusion powered impulse engines built into the back of the craft, themselves accounting for nearly three-quarters of the fighters overall weight. They fighters were nimble in atmospheric confines, and they were quite deadly in space. At least, everyone had hoped they were deadly. This was to be their first operational mission, and there wasn't a single pilot in the entire fleet that had pitted one of the D17-class attack shuttles against an enemy of equal value… or of any enemy at all, for that matter. This was going to be their first taste of real action outside of the simulations and battle exercises of the Thranstor system, and it was understood by all of the officers on the carriers that Starfleet Intelligence was going to be scrutinizing their performance.

Denbo approached his assigned craft, with a large black number '1' painted on its dorsal sides, when the crew chief exited the small hatch on the port side after just finished his preflight check.

The chief, a senior enlisted man with peppery hair, rubbed his thick sweaty hands on his dark green coveralls as he holstered a chrome micro-spanner in his breast pocket. "She's all ready for you, sir. Everything checks out one-hundred percent."

"Thank, Chief," Denbo offered with a smile and a brief handshake before entering the craft. Trent had to duck his head slightly as he entered the fighter, careful not to bump his head as he had done a half dozen times when he first learned to pilot the D17. He climbed into the cockpit and, seeing that his weapons officer had already arrived, gave him a quick smile. "All ready for this, Collin?"

"As ready as I'll ever be." Lieutenant Junior Grade Collin Sterling replied. The boyish lieutenant, barley out of flight school and not far removed from Starfleet Academy, smiled back at Trent. His slanted blue eyes were like two windows looking out into the afternoon sky. His thick brown hair was combed fashionably around his head, and he struggled to let it maintain its shape as he placed a microphone headset over his crown. Collin flipped the toggles that put the fighter's laser into standby mode. "Weapons are charged and ready, skipper."

"Very good. Let's do this just like the ranges back at Thranstor. No difference, okay?" Denbo said, referring to his tactical officer's keen eye and deadly accurate shooting of targets on the test course those many weeks ago. Or was it a lifetime ago?

"Well, there's a little difference," Collin replied with a chuckle as he flipped several switches on the overhead console that would link the vessels tactile computer to the short range sensors. "The practice targets, even the ones that fired back, weren't designed to kill us."

Denbo smirked. "True. But the Klingon's have to catch us first, Sterling my boy." Then he switched on the navigational computers to his right with a single throw of four chrome toggles, allowing the computer to enter its final diagnostic mode before flight. Once the computer had reported that all system were green, he reached to the overhead and pressed a red blinking square button to place the anti-gravity generator in standby mode as they prepared to launch. Trent pulled his own headset on and adjusted the microphone closer to his mouth. "Patch me through to the rest of the squadron."

Sterling held one hand to the side of his headset, pressing the single speaker further into his ear. He reached out the other hand and rotated a dial switch on his forward console as he tuned the fighter's subspace transmitter to the correct frequency. He then flipped a single control in the panel in front of him. "You're on, sir."

"Gentleman, this is the wing commander, Lieutenant Commander Denbo. I'll keep this short and sweet. You all got the same briefing I did, so I'm not going to reinvent the wheel and tell you what job we have to do or how to do it. Once I've cleared the hanger, I want everyone in the 101st to come out and form up on my wing into a trailing-V formation, and the rest of the squadrons will form up on their prearranged vectors accordingly and wait for the order to attack. The Klingon's aren't expecting an assault from small fighters, so we have the advantage here. Just stay tight and remember your training. Everyone switch to coded frequency Alpha-6 and confirm."

A small screen folded out from the side of the control panel on Collin's right. On it were a series of small square lights that indicated the status of each of the six fighters in Denbo's squadron. When each of the lights had changed from yellow to green, Sterling gave Trent a nod. "Everyone's checked in, sir."

With a slight dip of his head he turned from Sterling's gaze and looked out of the viewport at the row of fighters waiting to launch. After a brief moment of silence he said "Signal the flight officer that the 101st is ready to depart."

"Aye, sir." Sterling replied.

After a moment the white lights of the hanger bay changed to a dim red glow. As the last of the maintenance crew evacuated the hanger, a yellow light above the hanger doors began to turn quickly on its axis. A series of red lights on Denbo's control panel turned from yellow to blue, then the large clamshell doors of the hanger bay slowly began to part. As the doors fully retracted into their alcoves, Trent reached up and engaged the null gravity generator, and the fighter craft slowly hovered off of the deck. He engaged the maneuvering thrusters and oriented the craft in the direction of the open doors. Outside of the hanger, Trent could see a Larson-class destroyer move to the starboard side of the carrier as it made way for the fighters that were about to launch. Trent reached for the thruster controller and, nudging it forward slightly, glided his nimble fighter between the now open doors.

Minutes later the entire squadron was in their prearranged V-formation, hanging just aft of the Sigma Exat by fine hundred meters. Denbo did one final check on the navigation sensor array, and then asked Collin to switch on the laser battery.

With a series of flicks to the black switches on the weapons console, Sterling had the guns online. "Ready, sir."

"How is the targeting computer?" Denbo asked as he turned to the weapons officer.

Sterling turned to his right and, glancing down at the glowing retical in the console, gave a slight nod of approval.

"Good. Let's run one final check on the—" Trent's comment was interrupted by a beep from the communications console. The yellow status light that was methodically blinking told Denbo that it was the fighter control officer onboard the Sigma Exat calling in to let them know the position of the Klingon vessels. Trent reached up and pushed the button. "This is Denbo. Go ahead, sir."

The bassoon voice of the Andorian flight control officer, Commander Nibalm, came over their headsets loud and clear. "Commander, the Klingon's are coming in hot and fast. ETA: five minutes. Stand by to engage the enemy."

"Did our primary target change?" Trent asked hesitantly. The fleet wasn't supposed to engage the Klingon's for another ten minutes. In hind sight, however, he should have expected such an overly aggressive move by the enemy. Once the Klingon's had located the Federation fleet, the enemy had three choices: Turn back, continue on course, or rush in and fight. It seemed that they had chosen the latter.

"Negative, Lieutenant. You're primary target is still the center-most heavy cruiser. Commodore Dozier is still convinced that the Klingon fleet commander is on that vessel."

"That doesn't seem much like a Klingon leader." Sterling said with a sideways smirk.

Trent chuckled. "On the contrary, Mr. Sterling, that sounds exactly like a Klingon commander: Send in the cannon fodder first, followed by the heavy guns. Keep back while the grunts take the blows."

Collin let out a small humph sound and nodded his head slowly. "I suppose you're right."

There was a long silence between the two. All that either of them could hear was the rhythmic sound of the thrusters as they easily kept the little fighter in place behind the carrier and hidden from the sensor scans of the Klingon's. There was a thumping sound, followed shortly by another, and then another. It took only a moment for both Trent and Collin to realize it was the sounds of their hearts beating hard in their chests, the adrenalin pumping as the two men—and the rest of the fleet—waited for the coming engagement. The yellow light began to flash once more on the control panel. As Trent reached for it he could hear Collin sucking in his breath, waiting for the forthcoming jump to full impulse power.

"Trent here. Go ahead, Sigma Exat."

"This is Commander Nibalm. The Klingon's vessels are in visual range. Short-range sensors are picking up a massive buildup in their forward weapons arrays, Commander. Prepare for battle."

There was more than a tinge of pride in the Andorian's voice. Trent knew that Nibalm would have much rather been out here facing the enemy than being seating behind a computer terminal. While the Andorian's were not a warlike race, they also believed that battle was a necessary evil when it came to the survival of their people. Territorial gains had been a constant source of conflict for the blue skinned race a millennia ago, and now it was the Federation's territory that Starfleet was attempting to gain back from the Klingon's.

Trent looked over to Collin, who peered at the center of his side console at the sensor display. "Confirmed, sir. All vessels appear to be arming thier forward batteries."

"Commander Nibalm, what does their formation look like?"

"Loose, Trent. Delightfully loose. They are in a staggered formation, roughly ten vessels high and about twenty wide at their waist. You should be able to maneuver into the center of the cluster with no problems. Enter in from the Z-axis. There seems to be less resistance that way."

"Roger, Commander. Just give me the word." Denbo said, gripping the shuttle's control handle with one hand and the index finger on the other poised above the thrust control switch.

"Stand by." Nibalm replied distractedly, probably conferring with Admiral Everett onboard the battle cruiser Tracy at that moment.

Lieutenant Commander Denbo gave his weapons officer a sideways glance. "Signal the rest of the squadron, Collin. We're getting ready to go."

Commander Niblam's voice came back over the speaker. "Engage thrusters in five… four… three… two… one. Mark."

"Time to light the fire." Trent said, pressing the impulse igniter, the fighter's 23rd century equivalent to an afterburner. The orange glow of the impulse thrusters sprang to life, rocketing the tiny craft above, and then passed, the Sigma Exat at nearly half one quarter the speed of light. The rest of the 101st was tight on Denbo's tail; all of their engines lightning off in a computer controlled sequence directly after their Commanding Officer.

When the Klingon ships became discernable out of their forward viewports, Trent heard Collin let out a deep gasp. There were hundreds of vessels, all painted in the same motley tones of rust green and gray, representing nearly every hull design in the Klingon arsenal. There were light and heavy cruisers, destroyers of three different hull types, troop and equipment transports, and a few types that Trent had never laid eyes on. He quickly turned on his sensor recorder. If they made it back from this mission alive, the information the 101st was now obtaining would be invaluable to the tacticians at Starfleet Command.

The Klingon D-7 heavy cruisers in the lead opened fire on their equally matched Starfleet opponents with disrupters and photon torpedoes streaking passed and below the nimble fighters of the 101st. A half second later, from nearly every ship on the front line of the Federation forces, long lances of yellow laser bolts sprang out and punctured the front line of the Klingon forces. Trent could see that a pair of D-7's in the forefront of the formation was instantly holed through by what must have been the combined firepower of five or six Starfleet vessels. They crumbed under the laser onslaught and drifted slowly out of formation, only to be instantly replaced by near mirror copies seconds later.

Seconds later the fighters of the 101st, 102nd, 207th, and 91st fighter squadrons were winding their way through perilously through the three dimensional maze of Klingon warships. With Sterling at the weapons controls, Denbo was doing a masterful job at dodging and jinking around the lumbering capitol ships until a D-4 made an abrupt turn to starboard, putting its bridge section directly in line with the lead fighter. With reflexes like a cat, Denbo slammed the fighter hard forward, narrowly avoiding the seemingly massive Klingon warship, only to find his fighter rushing towards the top of a D-7 a few hundred meters away.

"We're gonna die, we're gonna die!" Sterling muttered and instinctively held his hands to his eyes in a vain attempt to cover his face from debris he was sure was going to come flying through the forward viewport at any moment.

Denbo switched the communications channel on and singled quickly to the rest of the wing. "Attack pattern Beta-2!" Denbo brought his nimble fighter round to port, nearly missing the cruiser by centimeters, and then ducked under the warp nacelle of another cruiser before coming to a clearing in the battle formation. He looked to Collin, who was only now removing his arm from the front of his face. "Get a hold of yourself, man." Trent offered with a smile. "I've got this under control. That's why I'm the pilot and you're the—"

"Watch out!" Colin screamed at the viewport. A second later the fighter's laser cannons came online and disintegrated a piece of debris that nearly cleaved the fighter—and its crew—in half. Both of the men looked to one another in shock and then Collin smiled from ear to ear. "You may be the high and mighty pilot, sir, but I just saved our ass."

"You'll get no argument from me." Denbo said with a slow nod, and then craned his neck to get a better look out of the transparent aluminum viewport. "It seems, for the moment at least, that the larger ships are more concerned with fighting their capitol ships counterparts and are completely ignoring the fighters."

"Agreed, skipper." Collin said, and then his attention was drawn from the viewport to the communication terminal. "Sir, we've lost two fighters, but the rest are all present and accounted for."

"Good, because we need to get going."

Collin looked to the short-range sensors, smiling wit approval. "Sensors are showing that we're right where we need to be."

"Now that's a stroke of luck I wasn't counting on. Where is the primary target?"

Sterling flicked a switch on his console and verified the range to target. "Just to our stern, sir."

Denbo flipped the switch on his control stick that would initiate the communications channel. "All fighters prepare for attack pattern Delta-4." He said, giving the order for an all-out, straight forward frontal attack on the Klingon cruiser. He licked his lips, looked to Sterling, and then turned his small fighter one-hundred and eighty degrees to face out with the ferocious D-7 heavy cruiser.


	21. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Stardate 4110.18

October, 2253

The binary stars of the Klef system, a pair of nearly identical red dwarfs, had been rotating around themselves for nearly five-point two billion years without much cause for concern. Empires had formed and collapse, whole species had evolved from microbes to sentient life, only to destroy themselves and their cultures later, and entire planetary systems had come and gone in that time. Still, the twins of Klef kept burning and turning, supplying warmth to the only Class-M planet in the system.

None of the planets in the Klef system had never formed any meaningful sentient life of its own in the nearly five billion years of its existence. The diameter of Klef II was one-point six times that of the Earth, with a combined land mass some five times that of the Terran home world. A vast ocean bisected the two continents of the surface, giving the planet a warm ring of water around it equator. Above and below the two planetary poles were the small landmass caps of the planet, each teaming with vegetation and swaps near the coastal regions, with mountainous expanses separating the warmer equatorial climates from the frigid snow covered polar regions.

It was on the northern continent named Pandalar that the Tellerite's had set up their small mining facility. Klef II was rich in iron, silicon, aluminum, gold, and silver in vast quantities. In short, a wealth of materials which were required for the construction of badly needed starships and computer system equipment. The Tellerite's had made extensive use of these materials in the decades that they had been mining Klef, and they often boasted that one-quarter of Starfleet was made of Klef materials. The loss of this planet to the Klingon's would be deadly to the Tellerite economy, to say nothing of the danger to the Federation.

And, after five billion years of relative peace, the Klingon's—and war—had finally come knocking on the doorstep of Klef.

Admiral Klag, Supreme Commander of the 5th Klingon Expeditionary Fleet, with two-hundred and fifty-five vessels at his disposal, was poised in the perfect position to take possession of Klef. The pitiful forces of the Federation were also here; his scouts had told him as much when the fleet entered the Klef system almost an hour before—as did his common sense before he had even arrived. There was simply no way he could have penetrated this far into Federation space without being detected.

However, stealth had not been on his mind as he blazed a trail of wanton destruction from one star system to the next to finally arrive at this point in space. To him, Klef was just one more stepping stone to be crushed under his heel while he dispensed the Emperor's ultimate plan of increasing the boundaries of the Klingon Empire. Klag could care less how many races he had subjugated, how many he had personally enslaved, or how many beings he ultimately tortured or killed. All that mattered to him was the honor that was bestowed upon him by the Emperor and the glory that came from battle after victorious battle. His mighty fleet had bested the Federation before, and he was confident that he could do so again. That the Federation had mustered a fleet equal in strength to that of his own was inconsequential. In Klag's mind, there would need to be nearly twice the number of Starfleet vessels in this system to even the odds of the conflict that was waging.

It would be a good fight, he had been sure of it, and Klag was also confident that the Federation would give it their best attempt, but ultimately their efforts would've been wasted and they would be defeated, as so many already had been. He had momentarily toyed with the idea of sending out a message to the Earther commander, telling him that the Klingon's would've let them live if they would only recognize the futility of their efforts and leave the system before senseless death came in the form of the icy cold grasp of space. After a moment he set the amusing thought aside as the admiral—the Imperial Race Klingon with over forty years of battle hardened experience under his heavy leather belt—regarded the small blue-green world one last time from the bridge of his Riskadh-class command cruiser Night Stalker before committing his second wave of cruisers into the battle that had been underway for nearly thirty minutes.

The command center of the Night Stalker was solemnly quiet, and it would remain so for the duration of the battle. Klag had just seen to that. A junior officer, known for his occasional clumsiness, had dropped a metal stylus to the deck as it slipped from his sweaty hands. Before he could turn to offer an apology to the admiral, Klag had his disruptor out of his holster and the offending junior officer was quickly dispatched in a shimmer of green incineration.

The dark space, fifty-meters square and dominated by a large tactical display table in the center of the room, was dimly lit by a series of flood lights that the Admiral had ordered to half of their normal illumination. Admiral Klag enjoyed the silence and the dim lighting, as he felt that they both allowed for fewer distractions while he concentrated on the task at hand. He clasped his hands behind his back as he studied the tactical table from one side to the other. The Imperial forces was neither gaining nor losing ground in the conflict, and while the admiral refused to entertain the idea of defeat, the thought of holding a stalemate with the inferior Earther's was starting to aggravate him to the core of his heavily armored chest.

"Communications officer," Klag shouted, his deep voice reverberating off the walls of the bridge. "Get me Commodore Kamato on subspace, now!"

"Aye, sir!" the officer shouted in response.

Commodore Kamato, the oldest of the Imperial Fleet's battle commanders, second only to Klag himself in the fleet chain of command, was the commander of the 12th Assault Flotilla. Kamato's family formed the backbone of the Dok'Marr line—a lineage of proud and honorable warriors that stretched nearly all the way back to Kahless himself. Kamato's father had served as Klag's commanding officer onboard the Sword of Truth many years ago, and he had since achieved a seat of great importance on the High Council. It was because of this association, and the long history of proud service between those two warriors, that Klag had risen to become the Supreme Command of the 5th Fleet. Kamato's father, General Wreok, was deemed too frail to travel the stars once more. If he had, he was warned by his physician that it would have been his last, as his health would have not been able to endure the hardship such a voyage from the home world would entail. Instead, Klag had been chosen to lead the fleet into victory and Kamato was placed as his second in command.

Klag, however, was not so foolish to allow that fact to slip from his mind each moment he was still breathing. Kamato was honorable… for the most part. He would do as he was ordered, and that was all that Klag truly required of him at this point. If, on the other hand, Klag were to let his guard down for a moment, he was sure Kamato would press his advantage. It was quite a long way back to Klingon space, and a very short distance from the nearest air lock. The last thing Klag wanted or needed was to be the victim of an unfortunate 'accident'. If that were to happen, if Kamato was somehow in a position to assume total control of the fleet, it could possibly spell doom for the entire Klingon effort in this sector. While the High Council may not have been aware of this opinion, to Klag, however, it was a fact.

A moment after he had made the initial order, the communications officer spoke up. "Admiral, I have Commodore Kamato for you."

Supreme Commander Klag clasped his hands behind his back and strode silently to the communications station. He boot heels hardly made a sound, which was quite a feat considering the sheer bulk of the man. His long imperial robe made a soft swishing sound across the grated deck of the command level, the only sound that the rest of the bridge crew heard from his movement.

"Commodore Kamato, this is Admiral Klag speaking. I assume your forces are ready to engage the enemy?"

Kamato's forces—as the order had been given to Klag directly from the High Council—were to remain in reserve status and should only called upon if the need or opportunity for their particular talents arose. Klag had never once challenged a ruling by the Council, no matter how foolish or ill-advised it might have seemed at the time. This instance was no exception, and Klag had no misconceptions as to why Kamato was being 'coddled', as the Supreme commander so often said in his mind about the junior leader.

The Commodore came over the speaker, his voice full of confidence. "Yes, Lord Klag. My forces are ready for the coming battle. It will be glorious."

Klag looked down to the speaker in front of the communication officer and, for the first time in his life, honestly felt like spitting into the device. Klag had no appreciation for Kamato's style of tactics. In fact, it held no real style at all. Kamato would merely take in the vast bulk of his forces, strike with everything they had, and take no prisoners or capture any vessels. Every target was a target of choice, from medical frigates to escape pods. Klag had even heard rumors that Kamato's own ships would be fired upon by their comrades if they were to get in the way of a killing blow. There was no honor in that, but there was victory. And it was a decisive victory that Klag now needed. As the ancient proverb went, 'When a show of teeth is not enough, then bite—but bite deep.'

During the last hour Klag and his opponent, a Starfleet Admiral of some skill, by his reckoning, had gone toe to with the seasoned Klingon commander in the largest fleet action that Klag had ever been a part of. He considered that his counterpart was also similarly awed by the sheer number of combatants, as neither side had a decisive edge over the other. Had either commander been more experienced than the other, the battle would more than likely have been over by now. Now it was time to pull in the reserves, the wild-card that Klag had held up his heavily studded gauntlet for the last thirty minutes. It was time to see what the new class of heavy cruisers could do.

"Commodore Kamato, you will take the 12th Assault Flotilla to the heart of the Earther's defenses. You are to strike fear in them, a fear that they have never known. We will use these new weapons with all of their might and power and we will crush them decisively. Is that understood?"

Kamato sneered back over the speaker. "Understood, My Lord."

"Then go. Go to your fate, Commodore."

"And you to yours, Admiral. To your success!"

The inflection in Kamato's voice caused a slight sneer to form on Klag's lips. "Toh-pah," he said in insult to the commodore after the channel had closed.

"* * * * *"

"Rear Admiral Dar'an, I'm picking up some odd movement from within the Klingon forces."

The Izarian Admiral has been glaring into the tactical displays in the command center for the last thirty minutes, trying to get a foothold on this sector and grab some sort of advantage from the Klingon's. Dar'an had sent his ships into battle, had sent whole Battle Squadrons and Strike Squadrons in, and now those people and vessels simply no longer existed, destroyed in minutes by the enemy. The Izarian nearly spat in disgust as he watched a Achernar-class cruiser Price William get the jump on a D-4 and pounded it into space dust, only to be double-teamed by a pair of D-7's and get blown into nothingness. Hundreds of Starfleet officers, fine men and women from dozens of species, maybe thousands of them, we're now dead. Now the fleet communications officer was giving the Rear Admiral information that made his stomach curl.

"What kind of movements?" He yelled into the air. "You're vagueness will only serve to get more people killed."

"I'm putting the communications up on the main screen, sir." The young male officer said.

A moment later the center tactical image in the command center wavered, as if covered by a thin film of gaseous haze. A second later the image changed to mimic the forward view of the Bonhomme Richard-class medium cruiser U.S.S. Manark, under the command of Fleet Captain Matt Decker. "Repeat: Admiral Dozier, are you receiving our signal?" Decker's voice echoed in the command center of the Admiral's flagship, the Anton-class light cruiser U.S.S Guardian.

Dar'an waved his strong hand at the central view screen dismissively, as if trying to wipe the image into clarity faster. "Yes, yes. We are receiving you. Captain Decker, what are we seeing here?" The Admiral asked as he watched the Federation destroyer Anzio score a torpedo hit against a Klingon cruiser. Decker's voice began to narrate what the Admiral was seeing on his viewer, his voice coming through the all of the speakers in the command center of the Guardian at once.

"Admiral, what you're seeing on the screen in the remainder of the 21st Battle Force," Decker said hurriedly. "We've sustained heavy casualties, but we've been giving the Klingon's as good as we've got. A moment ago it looked like the Klingon's were going to reform into another battle line, but then they suddenly began to withdraw unexpectedly. There's now a large hole in their defensive screen."

Dar'an walked from the large tactical displays to stand behind one of the fleet communications officers. "Captain, can you put that hole on the viewer."

"Yes, sir. Switching now." The image on the viewer again wavered, as if it were caught in a downpour of water, then began to slowly re-solidify. There, outline by nearly two dozen Klingon warships, was Decker's 'hole', as he had put it. This was indeed an unusual tactic for the Klingon's, as they usually held a very tight formation during close combat. To open up such a large gap in their field was to allow their enemy to escape. It could just have easily been a trap. Either way, Dar'an was not about to commit his forces to finding out the answer.

"They may be trying to break up and escape, Admiral." Decker said, although his tone reflected his condemnation of this tactic. "My sensors on the Manark are showing that we gave the enemy a pretty good pasting here, considering our own losses."

Dar'an considered Captain Decker's words for a moment. The numbers of starships on both sides seemed to be slowly dwindling, with no clear victor in the battle. Perhaps Starfleet had managed to fend the Klingon's off, causing them to find a safe hiding spot while they licked their wounds? Yeah, and maybe Vulcan's were the best comedians in the Federation.

"Fleet Captain Decker, I want you to continue to monitor this development for the next few minutes. If you feel it is warranted, I want you to—"

Decker interrupted the Admiral before he could finish. "Sir, something is moving to fill in the hole form the other side. Whatever it is, my sensors are telling me it's big!"

"Decker, magnify your screen." The central most tactical monitor on the Guardian suddenly zoomed towards the blackness of the hole, and a large rust green form began to take shape… then another… and finally a third. Dar'an squinted his eyes in futility at the two meter wide display. "Enhance that image, Fleet Captain Decker. We can't make out anything."

"Trying, sir," Decker's voice replied nervously. "The Klingon's have thrown up some form of jamming net. We can't get a clear picture without moving in a little closer."

'… said the spider to the fly,' Dar'an repeated in his head. He inhaled and exhaled his breath slowly. "Send in two destroyers to get a better look, but maintain caution, Fleet Captain."

"Aye, sir."

Seconds later the distinct flashing blue symbols of two Starfleet destroyers became visible on Dar'an large tactical display monitor. They were the wedge shaped Portsmouth class destroyers Alpha Trion and Rana. They moved towards the pocket in space from either side of the Manark, their orange fusion engines burning brightly against the backdrop of space. In the distance, on the periphery of the opening the Klingon's had created, war continued to rage on as destroyer engaged cruiser, cruiser battled cruiser, and destroyer's fought transports on both sides.

"Admiral," Decker said after a moment. "The destroyers are nearing the Klingon position. I'm putting the Alpha Trion's main viewer image up on your screen, sir."

What were once three greenish outlines on the screen slowly came into focus. Dar'an, standing behind the communications terminal with folded arms, glared at the increasing size of the shapes. They were ships, but like nothing that Dar'an or anyone else in the fleet had ever seen. They had the same basic bridge pod and connection neck as a D-7, but they're hulls were longer—about fifty meters or so. The secondary hulls were enormous, constituting over three-quarters of their total length. They had a gradual slope on the sides, which came to separate points that were aft of the bridge pod on the port and starboard sides, as if two large triangles had been welded together at their base. Under the base of these structures, on the aft end, were the warp nacelles which sloped slightly inward at their connection points, allowing the large upper hull to shield them from a top-down attack.

Dar'an had only a moment to contemplate the ramifications of this discovery. "Decker, get those ships out of there!"

Then, with no warning whatsoever, the large Klingon ships opened fire on the smaller destroyer escorts. The Portsmouth's, designed a decade earlier and more suited to patrol duties or convoy escort, were ill-equipped to handle large fleet engagements and be expected to last very long. This was proved true when all six of the lead Klingon's forward disruptor came online, shot out in a brilliant hail of energy, and disintegrated the destroyer in a single shot. The second Klingon cruiser wasted as little time in dispatching the Rana in the same fashion. Nearly two-hundred Starfleet officer total were vaporized in less than ten seconds. The third Klingon, in the rear of the staggered formation, moved to the front of the line—presumably to get his own taste for blood quenched.

Rear Admiral Dar'an was beside himself as he looked at the newest, exceedingly deadly weapon in the Klingon Imperial Navy. "Decker, regroup the remainder of your force at point Beta-2. You'll need to destroy those new vessels before engaging any further targets."

"Understood, sir."

Dar'an's screen began to shift from the view of the Klingon heavy cruisers to a field of less crowded stars as the Manark orientated itself at Beta-2, the predefined rendezvous point for the 21st Battle Force.

"Communications officer, get me Commodore Jernigan," Dar'an said hastily. "Have him form up the remainder of the 103rd Strategic Group with Decker's force at Beta-2 and then have them both commence attack on those battlewagons."

"* * * * *"

Commodore Patrick Jernigan, commanding the Anton-class cruiser Renown, leaned forward in his command chair as he studied Decker's face on his view screen. Decker, still a young man at thirty-three years of age, seemed to have put on a few years in the last hour. His face was smudged with grease and grime, his gold uniform tunic was stained with sweat and blood, and his dark brown hair was a disheveled mess. Still, Matt had the undeniable command presence that few officers in Starfleet had ever attained. He was, at the moment, leaning back into his command chair as if he were lounging in his backyard and sipping on iced tea.

"What can I do for you, Commodore? I'm a little busy here." Matt said with his usual cocky smile.

"Well, it seems that I've been ordered to render any assistance you may need." Jernigan dark eyes sparkled as he smiled, his white teeth contrasting deeply the dark skin of his Jamaican ancestry.

"I never thought I'd live to see the day when a Commodore came to assist a Fleet Captain in combat." Decker replied to his old friend. The image of Jernigan on the bridge of the Renown buffeted from side to side, as if the ship had ether taken a hit or was rocked by a very close call.

"Between you and me, after this war is over I'm done with this uniform, Matt." Patrick laughed nervously. "I'm going back to teaching biochemistry to grade school students who've probably never even seen a Klingon ship before."

"What? And give up your commission?" Decker eyed Jernigan sideways and smirked. This was an old debate between the two, one that had been slowly raging for the better half of four years. It usually ended with Jernigan saying he would resign 'in two weeks' which, of course, had yet to happen.

"Are you saying you wouldn't be interested in a slightly used pair of Commodore braids for those uniform cuffs of yours, Captain?"

Decker absently thumbed the left cuff of his uniform with his right hand. "I'm sure what I'm owed will come to me in time, and the last thing I'd want is to wear anything that belonged to you, Commodore. Some boots are just too large to fill. I'm sure that goes for cuff braids as well."

Commodore Jernigan smiled softly and nodded. "Then let's go get those new braids for you. I hear there is an angry trio of heavy cruisers around here with new paint jobs on them. Why don't we go in there and see if we can't scuff them up a bit?"

Decker's left eyebrow went up. "Did you have anything specific in mind, sir, or should I just guess?"

Patrick Jernigan leaned his muscular frame back into his command chair, smiled, and then mirrored Decker's pose precisely. This time it was the Manark's turn to shift abruptly as a disrupter blast passed closely by and struck a destroyer off her port bow. Jernigan smiled as the Manark righted herself. "Do you remember that old Academy drinking song, Captain?"

Decker's hand was now firmly gripping his armrest as he waited for another jolt to rock his ship. "We had quite a few in my day, Commodore. Which one are you referring too?"

Jernigan's Jamaican accent was thick with humor. "I'm sure you did, but it always amazed me that—no matter how many classes would come and go—and how many songs they all adopted, there was only one song that always stuck to the campus like a Tiberian bat. It was like the second fight song of the Academy. I'm sure you would remember something like that, Captain."

The look on Decker's face was first of confusion, then humor, then understanding. "I believe I do remember it now, sir. It was called Down from Saturn and… up Uranus." Several officers on the bridge of the Manark chuckled slightly at the remembrance of the song.

The Commodore laughed heartily. "That's the one, Captain! And that is exactly what I intend to do to our friends out there," he said has he inclined his head over his left shoulder. "We will come in from a steep positive Z axis. I'm talking about being completely perpendicular to their course." He was using his hands to simulate the opposing forces. "We hit them with everything we've got and give them as little a target as possible. Then, we send the other half of our forces screaming up from the negative-Z and do the same." He then slammed his fist into his palm in a loud clap that echoed throughout both bridges.

Matthew smiles broadly. He admired the boldness of the Commodore's plan immensely. It was exactly Decker's style. "Sounds good to me, sir. Where do you want the 21st to be stationed? First or second attack run?"

"I want you with me, Captain, on the first run. I've relayed the plan to the rest of the 103rd just now. Our first target is coming into sight right below us. On my signal we will attack. Switch back to visual and let's get down there and do some real damage."

Decker, flicking his index finger away from his forehead, did exactly as the Commodore suggested. The video image of the Commodore was replaced by the downward view of a pair of the new Klingon heavy cruisers. They were beautifully deadly, immensely powerful, and—no matter what—they had to be stopped.

The most rearward Klingon cruiser had targeted a Heston class cruiser, the U.S.S. Brando. With one barrage of its six forward disrupters it had blown the saucer module free of the secondary hull, which was now a burning mass of twisted metal. Then it unleashed four photon torpedoes simultaneously and blew the saucer into burning fragments no larger than the Manark's helm console.

"Ready to engage full impulse power at your command," The ships helmsman said over his shoulder.

A red button on the armrest of Decker's chair began to flash in a quick pulse, and he knew that the Commodore was transmitting his signal. "Helm officer, full impulse! Weapons officer, target that forward cruiser. I want a full barrage—all weapons, tight dispersal—and throw the kitchen synthesizer at them as well!"

"Aye, sir!" the men replied proudly.

The Manark, with a dozen cruiser and destroyers tight on her stern, swooped down from the proverbial heavens to attack the devil in their own backyard.


	22. Epilogue

Epilogue

Stardate 4111.13

November, 2253

Incoming subspace communication…

Classification: CONFEDENTIAL

FROM: The Office of the Commanding Officer, Starfleet Public Relations, Commodore Joselyn Czernovski.

TO: All commanding officers, Galaxy Exploration Command.

VIA: Office of the Commanding Officer, Starfleet Command, Fleet Admiral John Murdock, San Francisco, Earth.

1. On or about Stardate 4110.29, the Federation starship U.S.S. Endeavor, NCC-1001, failed to report to sector command in the Theta Eridani system. Subsequent searches have failed to ascertain the exact disposition of the vessel and her crew. Any and all vessels, regardless of their respective branch of service or planetary affiliation, traveling near the last known coordinates of the Endeavor, that should discover any information that could possibly lead to the recovery of the vessel, should report such findings immediately to the Office of Starfleet Intelligence, Theta Eridani sector, Starbase 14.

2. Several new Klingon warships have been identified on front lines of the war effort. What little information Starfleet Intelligence has been able to gather is listed below:

(A.) A slightly modified version of the D-4 cruiser was identified on Stardate 4110.01. This vessel appears to be more maneuverable than the previous variant (now classified as a D-4D), and contains slightly greater firepower. Starfleet Intelligence has classified this vessel as the D-4E variant.

(B.) On Stardates 4109.25 and 4109.30, a smaller variant of the widely produced D-7 cruiser was positively identified near the Daros and Klethor systems, respectively. Due to the close proximity of the two systems, Starfleet Intelligence is unsure weather this is the same vessel or the first batch of new breed of vessels. This new vessel has been assigned the designation D-8. The vessel seems to be less armed and armored than the D-7, but this could also indicate that the vessel is more maneuverable. The identification of the vessel in this specific area leads credence to the stipulation that the Klingon's have a major construction facility somewhere in an adjacent sector of space, possibly in the Karag or Ruwan systems. If any such vessel matching this description are encountered, Starfleet captains are advised not to engage the enemy, regardless of whether said commanding officers feels that ensuing conflict would come out in their favor or not. They are hereby ordered to gather as much intelligence about the vessels as possible and transmit this data to the nearest Starfleet Intelligence installation or office. No exceptions.

(C.) In a recent series of engagements with Federation forces near Klef, Ogolo, and Jevol, Starfleet officers positively identified a new Klingon heavy cruiser design. This has been given the designation D-10A. It much larger, more heavily armed, and much more heavily armored than any vessel Starfleet has previously encountered from any race in the past. The vessels contain up to six forward firing disruptors (possibly more) and appear to have multiple forward firing photon torpedo tubes. It is also probable that the Klingon's have incorporate a rear firing disruptor or photon system as well, and all Federation vessel commanders should be aware that this information has not been substantiated, but should still, nonetheless, be strongly considered when vessels of this type are engaged. Starfleet captains are requested to gather as much information on this type as feasible, and to submit that information to Starfleet Intelligence as soon as possible.

3. Due to the influx of requests made by fleet and group commanders that the Constitution-class starships should be designated as combat units to counter any of the new threats listed in this communication, as well as previously known threats to the Federation, the Office of the Commanding Officer, Starfleet Intelligence, has stated the following:

'While we feel the (Constitution-class) as a whole would, indeed, provide Starfleet Command with the heavy firepower that may be lacking in some forward areas, we cannot assure that the performance of said vessels will meet with the field commander's expectations. Starfleet Command is dedicated to the safety of all of our member worlds and, should we feel that the (Constitution-class) will be able to fully meet the needs of our members in the continuing war effort, I will personally release these vessels to serve, once again, with Military Operations Command. Until such time, the (Constitution-class) will remain a research platform only, serving with both Galaxy Exploration Command and Colonial Operations Command until such time as the vessel can be fully certified for use in all other fields of operation.

4. The Office of Planetary Affairs has released the list of following planetary systems which, as of Stardate 4200.01, the Federation will officially begin trade relations: Dundas, Harpie, Zardos, Jido, Tarsus, Efro, Darius, Pathos, and the planet Formality. All Federation licensed civilian and merchant vessels will receive updated star charts and planetary information regarding these systems at their next minor computer overhaul, and at no cost to the vessel owners and/or operators.

5. On Stardate 4109.30, Galaxy Exploration Command launched a series of long range probes to scan the spin ward edge of the Gamma Quadrant. It is hoped that this quadrant will contain vast amount of new materials and minerals, as well as a host of beneficial species, that will help the Federation prosper well into the next century. The probes, launched at high warp velocity, should arrive in the Gamma Quadrant in roughly twenty-seven years.

On Stardate 4105.10, Starfleet Communications Headquarters reported that it had lost contact with the probe designated "Friendship-1". Friendship-1, launched by the United Earth Space Probe Agency in 2067, was designed to seek out new, intelligent life in the Delta Quadrant. The last reported position of the probe showed that it was still on course for the heart of the quadrant when the transmission unexpectedly stopped. The probe was designed to continually broadcast a modified homing beacon in the event that the probe was discovered by one of the races that it had sought out. However, no such signal has been detected. Due to the extreme range of the probe, Starfleet Communications Command has strong doubts that the mission can be salvaged. However, due to the historical significance of this mission, Starfleet Communications Command will continue to monitor all subspace frequencies for the probes transmissions.

6. On Stardate 4110.15, the Vulcan science survey vessel Criterion was reported lost by the Vulcan Science Academy. The vessel was a research mission near the Romulan Neutral Zone. While Starfleet Intelligence believes that Romulan's may be responsible for disappearance, no credible evidence has yet been discovered to corroborate this theory. All Starfleet commanders traveling near the area last reported by the Criterion should be weary of any and all vessels in the vicinity, as Romulan's may be attempting to mask their intentions under the guise of trader captains or merchants.

7. As of Stardate 4106.30, the twenty seven Surya-class frigates are now assigned to the Starfleet Reserve Force. These vessels will serve as instruction platforms for Starfleet Academy students, as well as training platforms for Starfleet Marine and Special Forces command operations.

The Constitution-class starship U.S.S. Potemkin has also been reclassified as a training vessel as of this stardate.

8. The Federation Museum at Memory Alpha has announced the opening of a new exhibit, focused on the early days of exploration of the Alpha Quadrant. To commemorate the one-hundred year anniversary of the Battle of Cheron, the NX-Class exploration vessel Enterprise, the oldest vessel still holding a commission in Starfleet, will now be fully opened to visitors. Previously, only several key areas of the ship were accessible during brief tours that were held throughout the year. After nearly a decade of meticulous restorations work, the museum is now proud to announce that the ship has been completely restored to her fully operational status and is displayed as she appeared in her 2156 livery. The vessel, as well as several Romulan ships captured during the Earth-Romulan war of 2156-2160, will be open year round starting on Stardate 4112.24, and will also be available to all Starfleet personnel for commissioning, enlistment, reenlistment, or the retirement services for active duty personnel. Requests for such a reservation should be forwarded to the Office of Public Affairs, Memory Alpha, no later than thirty stellar days prior to the event commencing.

"* * * * *"

Stardate 4111.18

November, 2253

Admiral Person Everett, seated calmly on the bridge of the U.S.S. Tracy, watched with a deep sigh of satisfaction as his ship entered the mooring ways of one of the Federation's deep space dry-docks in low orbit above the planet Thranstor. It had been a long voyage from Klef, where Everett had linked up with the remnants of 9th Strategic Group commanded by Read Admiral Dar'an, and Pearson was glad to be back in Federation controlled space.

Rear Admiral Dar'an, as well as Vie Admiral Coralin, had been tragically lost when their starships—the U.S.S. Guardian and the U.S.S. Franklin, respectively—had been destroyed by a new Klingon heavy cruiser in the Battle of Klef, and they were to be honored at a ceremony on the starbase tomorrow morning. With the death of both Coralin and Dar'an, Everett had been given a temporary field promotion to the rank of Vice Admiral and placed, much to the dismay of Rear Admiral Darius Cody, in command of the 1st Strategic Force—or what was left of it.

Of the seven-hundred and eighteen ships that had officially formed the 1st Strategic Force, over half of them would never return home. Those that did carried the scars of war, some that could be repaired, and others that could not. Those ships that could not be salvaged would never again see a commission in Starfleet. Their duty done, they would be recycled and scrapped to make way for newer and more capable vessels, one of which—the medium cruiser Antietam, was being finished out in a dry-dock directly adjacent to the Tracy's new berth.

Rear Admiral Cody, with the remaining ninety-two ships of the 7th Strategic Squadron, had been ordered to proceed to Fenbly VII to undergo their own repairs. For Cody, it could have been much worse, if not for the quick thinking of the destroyer U.S.S. Tamerlane. The small destroyer had sent out an emergency broadcast to the entire fleet—countermanding, on their own initiative, an order for communications silence by Cody himself. Cody, having split his forces between his assigned post of Jevol and the unauthorized port at Heuristic, had managed to act quickly enough to regroup his forces and post a defensive position at Jevol. However, even with his forces acting quickly, he had no better luck at stemming the flow of Klingon's deeper into Federation territory than any of the other Strategic Squadrons had. While the bulk of the 1st Strategic Force had slowed the Klingon's advances, they still advanced—just at a much slower pace.

Vice Admiral Everett held one hand to his chin, the other strumming the buttons on his command chair as he envisioned the upcoming meeting he would have with Admiral Beltran and Fleet Admiral Murdock at Starbase 14. In seventy-two hours, Everett was going to be on high speed scout vessel heading back to the starbase to appraise the major heads of Starfleet as to the losses that mounted over the last few months. Everett had every confidence that the Starfleet could hold the line that had been forged near most of the Klingon's advances into Federation space.

There was, however, a great unknown when it came to the enemy's advances into more coreward areas of Federation space. There, some intelligence reports suggested that the remnants of the strike force that attacked Jevol would push up to Elek, about three light years distant. Others stated that some Klingon forces would attempt to attack Sire Yopat, or possibly Fenbly, where Cody was now licking his wounds. Everett knew it was almost a certainty that the Klingon's would push towards Thranstor at this point. The shipyards made a most attractive target, and Everett was convinced that the Klingon's knew where they were. Due to his meeting with the heads of Starfleet, it was likely that Everett wouldn't return in time to help defend Thranstor, should any attack come in the next few months. He was sure, however, that he was going to return at some point.

The simple fact was that the Federation fleet, as a whole, met the Klingon's punch-for-punch. They destroyed, disabled, or captured as many Klingon warships as the Klingon's had done against the Starfleet forces. But, even after hitting the Klingon's with everything they had, it had only served to stop them momentarily. The Klingon's would stay put for a while. With the 7th, 9th and 11th Strategic Squadron's resources dwindling, Everett had been forced to return to purely Federation held territory to repair and rearm before attacking again, but ordered just enough ships to remain in the system to ward off any minor pushes the Klingon's might make in the near future. The majority of the Klingon's had been pressed back to the Topax system, where Fleet Intelligence was reporting the Klingon's had set up a make-shift orbital repair facility. There was now a make-shift neutral zone, extending from Klef to Jevol, with remnants of the two opposing fleets squaring off against one another. In any event, Everett was sure that the Klingon's wouldn't stay put while Starfleet repaired and rearmed itself. Indeed, it was foolish to believe they would. Even now as the Heston-class battlewagon U.S.S. Tracy—probably on her last official mission for Starfleet—limped into her final docking position under half thruster power, Everett was making a mental list of all the types of vessels he would demand that Starfleet Command send to defend Thranstor, as well as some of the nearby sectors, within the next month.

With a slight jolt, the navigation officer spoke up. "Sir, we just lost the last starboard thruster."

Everett offered a slight smile, as much to himself as to his old ship. He could see in his minds eye the long lines of burnt hull plating in the Tracy's saucer section, the cracked warp nacelle on her port side, and the hanger bay gaping open—its doors having been blown away and every shuttle onboard sucked out into space during her last battle. The Tracy was tired… both looking and feeling her age. Her laser emitters were nearly burnt out, her compliment of accelerator rounds was empty, and almost a fifth of her crew was either dead or in sickbay. For the last few weeks she had been the good and faithful servant she had always been in life as she ferried the rest of her crew home safely. Now, with her last mission over, she somehow knew it was her time to die. Pearson patted the armrest of the command chair lovingly and then slid his hand down its length. "I'm sure the inertia will get us to where we need to go, Lieutenant."

The Tracy, with no external propulsion systems on or functioning, slowly guided into the gaping maw of the orbital repair dock sphere. The light from the dock splashed around her hull, emphasizing even more damage than Everett was aware of. As the docking tractor took hold the U.S.S. Tracy, NCC-2200, she came to slow stop. The main gangway hatches were extended into the primary and secondary hulls, and Everett ordered all crewmen not on duty to report planet side for some much earned rest, relaxation, and reflection. He released the intercom button under his finger, feeling a wave of sadness come over him. This was probably the last order that he would give as a commander of a Starfleet vessel, and very likely the last such order that would ever be given on the Tracy. He absently stroked the button, wondering briefly if it would ever light up again under the touch of another commanding officer, or if it would be recycled like the rest of the ship and make it's way to a new warship—possibly one even carrying on the namesake of her predecessor. Everett found a peaceful solace in that belief.

He gingerly raised his hand from the control panel, then abruptly swiveled his command chair and glided toward the only remaining operational turbolift on the entire ship, giving the ships dedication plaque one final examination before exiting.

'…the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.' – T. S. Elliot


	23. Author Support

There is currently a Kickstarter Campgain to fund getting these novels professionaly edited.  
>Check it out here: projects1910450936/star-trek-the-four-years-war 


End file.
